Driven
by TheFarFire
Summary: Set 6 months after The Reichenbach Fall. "John, you're on the verge of another panic attack, it's just an autonomic protective mechanism-" "I know! I bloody know, you idiot! I'm a doctor!" CHAPTER 18 UP. Slash. JohnLock. Contains scenes of a sexual nature, angst/drama/mild sub-dom/hurt-comfort/romance. WARNING: Reviews may contain spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Hello all, Far Fire here.

This is my first fanfic, and it just happens to be about my OTP John and Sherlock :) From what I've seen of the fandom I know I'm not going to be torn to shreds, so I'm glad I won't have to beg for mercy...but truthfully I hope you enjoy this little drabble. Thanks.

Notes/Disclaimers:

-None of the characters are mine, no profit to be made out of this at all etc etc.

-This will be edited and updated, any significant changes will be highlighted in progressing chapters just in case you want to go back.

-Reviews/favs are always appreciated but not demanded.

-This will contain SLASH. Mano-a-mano actions. Manlove. Not sure how far, but be fairly warned.

_Edited 17th Sept: perspective fixed! Spellings, elaboration etc. No plot changes.  
_

**Driven.**

**Chapter 1**

"What's this all about?" John Watson rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes as he followed Lestrade down into the belly of Scotland Yard. It was late, the offices were quiet, and Lestrade had clearly been sweating judging from the fade lines on his shirt collar. Fresh lines. He rolled his eyes at the detail. When would he stop picking up on things like that? And why tonight of all nights, did it suddenly set him on edge? He had enough grey hairs as it was, he really didn't need an increase in paranoia tonight.

He wondered if this was about the 'unofficial' medical care he was giving to London's homeless network since losing his job at Sarah's clinic four months ago. Dispensing treatments and prescription drugs funded by the estate left by... _him_... wasn't strictly legal, but it wasn't strictly illegal either. Besides, it was the only good thing he was really doing with his life. If Lestrade was going to warn him off, he wasn't sure he could listen. It kept him active whilst he tried to get his head straight...

_"It's to be expected. There is no magic number. There is no set time to grieve for someone. You're still in shock."_ His therapist's voice echoed round his mind, making him bristle. Not now. Not today.

"You look like Hell, John. When was the last time you ate?"

"I eat every day." _It's keeping it in that's the problem_, he thought dryly. "Plus I though I told you to stop worrying about me?"

The Detective Inspector pulled up outside a closed door, a slight rabbit-caught-in-headlights look about him. On closer inspection John could see that even Lestrade's forehead was sporting a fine sheen of sweat now, mouth puckering in anxiety. His training immediately kicked in, the instinct to provide medical care was still as strong as it ever was.

"Greg, you don't look great yourself. Let me -" He reached towards him, attempting to feel his temperature on his forehead, but was rebuffed gently. Lestrade smiled nervously, shaking his head in dismissal, instead getting a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop down his brow.

"I'll be alright, I'm just... I dunno... Overwhelmed a bit."

John frowned with concern, but still his eyes were drawn away to the door. Someone was definitely in the room they were waiting outside of. Even with the dirty frosted glass, he caught sight of movement set further back as a figure passed by the light inside. Lestrade looked furtively at the door, then to John's face, and then finally came to rest on a scuff mark on the opposite wall. And all John could do was watch Lestrade fidgeting back and forth, rubbing his neck, brow furrowed, clearly stressed. He hadn't seen him like this in a very long time, and it made a knot of worry form in his gut, tightening as Lestrade continued.

"Damn strange business, all of this... You know the past few months since Sh-" He still hadn't learnt to control the involuntary jump in his heart, followed by that tight contracting in his gut every time his name was mentioned, something which never went unnoticed. Lestrade cut himself off from completing the name, probably trying to spare him more discomfort, like that was even possible. "This is... _Horrible_. It's all just a big bloody mess. Again."

John looked at him in confusion. "Again..? Seriously, what's going on, you look like you're coming down with something. Or about to have a coronary atleast." He half smiled at the bad joke, trying to get Lestrade to see sense. He tried again. "Would you just let me-"

"You're not going to like this. I want you to try to prepare yourself, as best you can. _Oh god_," his eyes flickered from left to right, like he was thinking aloud rather than actually talking to him. Had he rehearsed this? He looked like he was trying to remember his lines. "I just... I just wish there was some other way to do this- it's just we were_ desperate_. The Moran case, the double suicide- to think that you and me, and poor Mrs Hudson- well it just- I mean sometimes I can't even-"

"Greg!" John grabbed him by the arms, shaking him once to try and get him to focus. Lestrade looked him right in the face, seemingly bracing himself for what he had to say.

"You were right." He said slowly, looking ashamed. "I'm sorry. You were _completely_ right all along. He isn't a fraud. You had faith in him, and trusted him, and I was an idiot and I should have listened to you and not all the non-believers upstairs. That bastard Moriarty nearly got away with it."

John's voice was merely a whisper, the blood felt like it was draining out of his arms. After everything that had happened, Moriarty's name still had a debilitating effect on him; but the way he was talking, mixing up his tenses, apologising like this, was unnerving him more.

"What are you saying...?"

Lestrade looked at the frosted glass, the shadow had retreated. "Sherlock_ is_ a hero. He saved all three of us from being murdered by that nutcase. I mean, one of my own men, can you even believe it...?"

John sucked in a sharp breath, steeling himself for a conversation he did not want to have right now. "Was. _Was_ a hero, Greg. I know. It's hard. No one understands better than me, okay? Come on, you're meant to-" Lestrade cut him off, not listening, returning John's grip on his arms.

"The story is running tomorrow. It'll be in all the papers. Sherlock will be exonerated... We can prove _he_ existed, we have his right hand man in custody. It's finally over, John!" He looked so relieved, but John was aghast. "Don't you see? We can make it like it was before, we can go back-"

"I wouldn't go that far, Lestrade."

John's blood ran cold.

The voice he never expected to hear in this world or any possible after life just spoke from behind the frosted glass. The rich baritone barely even muffled. It was as if the door had put aside it's own existence just so that _that_ voice could be directly and fully aimed at John's ears with piercing clarity. He dropped his grip on Lestrade like it burned him, mouth setting in a hard, thin, unbelieving line, eyes widening until the whites shone. He moved back so far he bumped into the corridor wall opposite.

There... behind the frosted glass, was the outline of Sherlock Holmes. The shadow reached, turned the handle and revealed himself.

If John hadn't been a doctor, he would have thought he was having a heart attack. As he was a doctor, he suspected another panic attack. His lungs refused to work, he could feel the tension of a fight-or-flight reaction explode over his chest and rush up to his eyes, making them water. But still he bit back any and all noises, words and especially the expletives. His eyes wanted to look everywhere at once- did they actually see _more_ this time because of his absence? Because Sherlock suddenly seemed to be full to the brim with 'more'... more colour, more force, more_ LIFE._

"I'm sorry John, I wanted to tell you. It tore me up, seeing the way you've been. But the circumstances... I had to do my job to protect you-" Sherlock raised a hand silencing Lestrade, who went to say something further before deciding against it. He retreated down into the corridor instead, trying to give them some privacy.

Sherlock turned his full attention on him. His dead best friend, here, right in front of him. This was..._ too cruel._

"John..." That voice, coming out of_ that_ mouth, attached to_ that_ body, made up of _THAT_ mind- "I don't even know where to begin. I have so much I need to tell you-"

"Save it." John shook his head once, choking out the two words through bared teeth. He'd never wanted to kill a dead man before -and he meant really,_ truly_, squeeze-the-life-out-with-his-bare-hands type of killing. His heart felt like it was going to burst in equal parts hysteria and horror.

It wasn't possible, he'd finally lost it, clearly. The grief had sent him mad and he was probably lying in a puddle of his own drool somewhere in a mental hospital. Because he saw it. He saw the jump. The fall. That coat- John covered his mouth with both hands, backing up against the wall. He was wearing _the coat._

He wasn't equipped to deal with this situation at all. Not now, not ever. Tears threatened to spill over his eyes, and there was no air, no god-damn air in this whole building! Sherlock raised a hand to try and placate him but John was done. One hundred percent done.

Had they expected him to yell? To kick and punch or scream swear words and vulgar nonsense? He had previous form afterall, back at Baskerville, so it must have been a possibility they prepared for. _Prepared for..._ John pointed a finger past Sherlock at Lestrade who did his best to avoid his accusing glare. There were not enough words to describe the feeling of betrayal looking at the pair of them caused him.

John's stomach rolled violently. A warning. He had to get out of there before- _before...!_

Sherlock grabbed him as he tried to lurch away. "Please, just-"

Big mistake.

In all the times he'd imagined this impossible reunion, he'd never in a million scenarios dreamt up the reality.

He just managed to turn his head down fast enough to throw up on the floor, missing his suit but splashing Sherlock's shoes instead. He was so stunned that he released John and for a moment they just stared at each other. It was one of the few times John had ever seen him speechless. They both were.

And just like that he _snapped._ John wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and then unceremoniously kneed Sherlock in the groin, shoving him down on the ground like a crumpled wet paper bag, who grimaced in well-deserved agony.

He shoved a pointed finger in his face, "You won't get away with this!" Voice breaking, looking back up at Lestrade who was rushing back towards them. "Either of you!"

It left him only one thing left to do. He ran. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers _ran_. Back up the way Lestrade had led him, shame burning his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh my lordie, followers have reached double figures already? I'm so freakin' excited about that you have no idea!

Thanks so much! Can you believe I actually started writing this from Chapter 3 and had to work my way back to an intro – wth brain?! C3 still needs work but, as I'm so super grateful for the attention so far I'm going to try and get it out as soon as possible- there's my weekend sorted :)

Edit: minor spellings and words corrected. Pffft.

**Chapter 2**

If John had any doubts about what had just happened, then the arse-load of reporters lurking outside 221-B Baker Street had been evidence enough. The story would break in a couple of hours, and the public would be frenzied in their hunger for the gory details.

What the hell was he going to do?

John shivered against the clammy night air, but he couldn't bring himself to move from where he stood. The place where everything changed. His breath caught as he slowly raised his eyes to the ledge above, to the place where Sherlock had said his goodbyes.

How many times had he woke up screaming his name? How many times had he replayed the tipping point? How many times had he heard the gut-churning_ thwack_ sound of flesh on the pavement...?

John took a shuddering breath in, leaning over on his knees. His heart was pounding, vision unsteady, bile threatening to rise again._ It was all a lie_. He'd been too busy seeing the horror, and not the truth.

"Misdirection."

It was funny how one word could conjure up a thousand different feelings when said in_ just_ the right way. Irritation, anger, repulsion, bitterness, hurt, HATE-

"Can I not just have this time to myself? Is there not _one_ spare inch of my life you bloody Holmes' won't trample on?!" John forced himself upright, glaring at Mycroft with contempt.

Sherlock's older brother looked directly back at him, but there was nowhere near the normal amount of arrogance and cunning he usually displayed. In fact, you could almost say there was an air of sheepishness about him. But John was too fired up to debate whether Mycroft had grown a conscience in the last six months.

"It's been a long time, John."

"Really? It feels just like yesterday to me, and I highly doubt something like the _faked death_ of your brother would have prevented you from keeping tabs on me." Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but John's strained voice steamrollered over the top of his. He jabbed a finger in the air at him with vehemence . "If you try to deny it, I'll knock you out."

Mycroft's mouth snapped shut. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? 'Oh poor simple John, he's too distraught to realise he's still under surveillance.'" He laughed incredulously, the sound echoing on the damp streets.

"I mean it all makes _sense_ now- why keep tabs on me unless Sherlock wanted to keep an eye on one of his most successful experiments?! What was the topic this time? What about '101 Ways to Drive a Man Insane'? Or how about, 'How to Make the Perfect Human Time-bomb'?!"

John swallowed hard, the yelling certainly was invigorating, but he had to try and reign it in before he had a complete breakdown. He straightened up, firmed his stance, clenched his fists by his sides. He tried to speak as evenly as possibly this time, but the strain was evident in his voice. "Tell me, did you both start laughing about it straight away, or did you actually have the common decency to wait until after I was was done pouring out my heart at that fucking tombstone?"

It was very rare to see Mycroft as stunned as he was in that moment, but sure enough, he managed to gather his wits to respond.

"...I only found out he was alive 23 days ago."

John was about to call him a liar, but the dark circles around the other man's eyes and the extra lines on his pallid face seemed to tell a different story. Still, he wasn't about to start feeling sorry for him now. If Mycroft had used his brain properly, and kept that typically smug mouth shut, then this whole fiasco might not have happened in the first place. Not this way atleast... surely things could have been different?

"Well, that's 23 days of..._pain_...that you could have saved me." Mycroft baulked under that comment, lowering his gaze. "Not that you _owed me_ anything of course." He added in a low sarcastic drawl, knowing full well that they were both aware how, yes indeed, Mycroft did owe him- several times over.

Given all this, Mycroft still had the gall to stick his nose in further. "You've got it wrong, Sherlock did all this for a reason-"

"And now you're actually defending him? Because that's a _completely_ normal response from you." John scoffed, walking away, feeling better for it with every step. But Mycroft followed.

"I'm not saying I agree with his methods, I told you before he has an eye for the dramatic-"

"Stop following me."

"I looked into it immediately, I even went to that Lestrade fellow to point him in the right direction. Moriarty-"

"Shut up!" John stumbled momentarily on the pavement but kept moving. That name, that _demon-!_

"-had assassins ready to kill him, Mrs Hudson and _yourself_ if Sherlock didn't publicly ruin himself. In his eyes it _had_ to culminate with Sherlock's suicide. It was the most perfect, human display-" Mycroft grabbed his good shoulder, levering himself back into eye-shot,"-of guilt."

"Take. Your hands. Off me." John growled.

Back in the beginning, Mycroft had picked up on John's 'cravings' left over from the front line. The intensity of adrenaline fuelled danger, that terrible rush of endorphins released at the point of victory... Yet he was always so quick to dismiss John as harmless. It looked like he was having second thoughts now though. Mycroft released him, stepping back slightly. John was thinner, hadn't been doing so well after the whole ordeal, but here, half shadowed in the London air, he looked ready to strike with deadly force.

"The surveillance was my own doing. Sherlock had nothing to do with it, as far as I was aware he was buried in the ground. I was..." He paused to think of the appropriate word, "..._concerned_...about some of those he left behind. You just happened to be on that list."

John blinked in disbelief, it appeared that Mycroft hadn't lost his gift for bullshit after all.

"Listen to me very carefully." John started. "I won't be repeating myself. You take away _all_ of the surveillance, get rid of your minions dogging my every move, and don't darken my door ever again. Because if I see you again, I can't be held accountable for what I'll do to you."

John left Mycroft where he stood and headed towards an alley which would cut through on to the main street. He could hear the other man yelling after him, but he was done. No more holding on.

"He said he'd burn the heart out of Sherlock- think on it John! Don't be stupid about this, don't let Moriarty win! _John!_"

No of course not...Moriarty couldn't win. That right was claimed by the Holmes family.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello all! So this is the chapter I first started with, and it was a very specific scene in my mind... which explains why it is a little longer than the last two.

Again, a big thank you for all the follows and support, it's awesome :3 Hope you all like this scene, the drama is certainly unfolding now! A slight mix in perspectives about half way through, hope it's clear enough, but damn it is tricky to do the characters justice! Gave it a shot atleast :)

**Chapter 3**

John woke up quickly and with a completely clear mind. He rarely had the chance to savour these moments, they were so few and far between... This time was the only reprieve he had. Innocent of all the things that haunted him. _Clean._

The best things never lasted though. He gingerly raised himself up on the elbow of his good arm, and looked around. He'd thrown his nightshirt off again, the blankets were caught up around his trouser legs, and the end of the bed and bedroom floor were covered in shreds of newspaper.

Allowing himself to sit up properly, he felt more than a little embarrassed about the state of his room. In the cold light of day, it looked more like it belonged to a young offender rather than a responsible adult.

It had been a nightmare trying to get back into the flat that morning, through all the reporters that had camped out waiting to get 'The Big Scoop' from Dr John Watson. He'd managed it, but left quotes that were definitely unusable for the more reputable papers. Thinking about it now, he decided it would probably be best to steer clear of the news for a bit.

The shredded newspaper strips looked up at him accusingly, which forced him into gathering up as much as he could, cramming them all into the bedroom bin.

It was only after reading the fourth tabloid in the early hours of the morning, had John got what he thought was the whole picture, even with the odd theatrical embellishment here and there. But it had been the details regarding 'Sherlock's most trusted confidantes' helping him to pull off the stunt that had triggered the unfortunate destruction of the newspapers. Left in the dark again. After _all_ he had done for Sherlock...

He'd been so angry that he was sure he wouldn't sleep, but of course passed out from exhaustion within seconds of his head touching the pillows.

John's stomach growled, upset once again at the irregularity of its filling and emptying. He groaned, rubbing the sleep out if his eyes. He'd actually vomited all down the front if The Great Sherlock Holmes. The scene kept playing over and over in his head. Part of him found it very funny, but the majority vote was: totally mortified!

John took out his frustration on the pillows, slamming them back into place as he made the bed. It wasn't to be helped, he was still trying to rebuild his life, the panic attacks were just an inconvenient part that he _would_ get over, he knew that, it was just a matter of time-

A tentative knock on the door, anxious shuffling of feet, a light step he recognised. Oh he'd been selfish thus far, he knew, he was entitled to, but poor Mrs Hudson had probably only just found out the truth herself-

A frown settled on John's face as suspicion kicked in. Had she been in on it? Mrs Hudson might have been one if the wiliest women he knew, but if he asked her outright he was sure she'd be honest... but did he really want to know if she had?

John slid back the deadbolt on his door, and flipped back a second lock, opening up the door a few inches.

"Mrs Huds-"

Sherlock roughly pushed against the door, wedging himself in. John was so surprised he practically leapt back, and this gave Mr Element of Surprise the space he needed to fling back the door opening it completely.

Weirdly, John's first thought as Sherlock loomed before him was: _He's wearing the purple shirt I got him for his birthday._

"We need to talk." Sherlock stated, a few furtive glances around no doubt bringing him completely up to speed as to what John had been up to as of late. It was too much for the retired soldier doctor- it wasn't fair, it wasn't right for Sherlock to analyse him now!

"Where the hell do you get off pretending to be Mrs Hudson?!"

"Why do you have your door locked? You never do that- and you've added a deadbolt-"

Instinctively, John grabbed up a pillow, and shoved it into Sherlock like a policeman with a riot shield. "Out! Out! Get out of my room!"

He managed to wrangle him back onto the top of the stairs. "John that's hardly fair, you've been all over mine."

It was like a slap to the face when Sherlock said that. His body protested at the conflicting pressure of wanting to go beet red and faint at the same time. He pulled back slightly, letting the pillow hang down by his side, trying to take slow even breaths.

Sherlock reached for him but John shrank back further, leaning against the door frame. "How... dare... You say that. To me." He whispered between gasps. Sherlock had stepped on a mental land-mine John hadn't known was there, and he could feel the fallout building up inside him again.

Of course he had been in Sherlock's room. He'd forced himself to as soon as he'd returned back to Baker Street. He'd justified it by saying it was to be good to Mrs Hudson, a sense of normality returning to their home. But really he'd been fooling himself.

John thought back to the very first time he'd cried in there, sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, the sheets still freshly made because he never bloody slept in it. One hand clasped in Sherlock's dressing gown and the other trying to stem the flow at his eyes.

Of course Sherlock would have seen the signs, the little tell tale creases in the covers he never remade that showed where John had sometimes slept. How could he ever try to explain why he'd done it? Did he even owe him an explanation after all that happened?

"You have. No right. No right to-" John was fighting for air, hands shaking so much that the pillow slipped free.

"John..." Sherlock's voice was low and soothing. Annoyingly manipulative right now. "You're on the verge of another panic attack, it's just an autonomic protective mechanism-"

"I know! I bloody know you idiot! I'm a doctor!" He stumbled forward, this time putting his hands on him, wanting to grab him into a hug, because there was relief there under all the upset, there really was, but he was too freaked out and livid to give in to it. Better to push, to get him out, get the air put back into the building. Sherlock jumped back down a couple of stairs without looking what he was doing, before widening his arms and stopping them both.

"You shouldn't even be here!" John felt stronger for yelling, so that was what he was going to do, yell over the panic. Sherlock clearly didn't mind airing their dirty laundry to complete strangers, so John could do it too. Let Mrs Hudson hear his fury, let the reporters make what they wanted of it. Sherlock had started this and John was bloody well going to finish it.

"I live here, where else would I go?"

"No, you don't live here, the rental passed to me after you offed yourself, so you can bloody well _fuck off_ back to whatever rock you've been deducing under the last six months for all I care!"

Sherlock swallowed, raising his hands slightly, palms outward in what John considered to be the international sign for 'calm down, let the hostages go' - infuriatingly not calming at all.

"I just want to explain-"

"No Sherlock, NO." John slapped his hands away, nausea giving way to rage. "I don't want to hear about it, I'm not going to stand here and clap my hands like usual and tell you how brilliant you are this time, no, NOT this time. I can't bear it!"

"If we're going to get past this, I just need you to _listen_-"

John was ready to punch him in the face, but instead he drew himself up to his full height and practically screamed from the top of his lungs. "NO you will listen to ME. It's your turn to stand there and _take it_!" John jabbed Sherlock in the chest with his finger, forcing him to go down another step to keep balance.

"You're a coward!" He screamed, the sound reverberating in the stair well. Sherlock's open mouth snapped shut, and for a split second John was just as surprised as he was that he had said that at all. He was just so furious, so hurt, confused, _conflicted_-

"You're a coward." John repeated, voice lower but still incensed. "I don't want to hear how you did it to save me, or Lestrade, or Mrs Hudson... Because we both know you did it for _yourself_. You did it BY yourself. You _made me_ watch you... What did you expect me to say? 'Welcome home?' Did you even think for one second what your death would do to me?" John's face was draining of colour at the memory, but his eyes were still locked on Sherlock's, his voice disgusted. "Or were you too busy planning your glorious and triumphant return...?"

Sherlock went to speak, he wanted to defend himself, but his throat was tight, he couldn't find the right words to start with. This feeling bunching up in his chest was unfamiliar, unplanned for, and growing exponentially with every disbelieving, angry look John threw at him.

"The funny thing is I should be used to being the last one to know. I'm your only friend, your 'best friend'" -angry air quotation marks- "and yet you still thought so little of me, still thought that I'd come around and get over it eventually just so that you could take the easy way out."

"Now John, I hardly think jumping off of-" John pushed him back down another step, asserting himself to a height advantage for once. Sherlock bit his lip, this wasn't right, this wasn't how he had planned it.

"It's was all so straight forward for you, wasn't it? I can't believe after all this time I could have been so blind! I thought... I thought things were different... for you and me atleast. But it was a huge mistake, clearly. All of it."

"It isn't like that, John, _please_-"

"You're a coward for letting me - and everyone else - suffer. For the lying, for betraying our friendship. If there were trained people ready to kill us, you would have rather saved yourself the hassle of feeling anything, of being the one to grieve, because you just had to bloody show off!"

"What 'if'? I saved your lives!"

"What life?! You don't get it do you? There's _nothing_ left!" John flung his hands wide, stood in just his bottoms, cord pulled tight because he was a lot thinner now, clothes needed to be tighter, drawn in, skin pallid, dark circles round his eyes, scars puckered across the shoulder. Sherlock was well aware that one of the most important people in his life had been slowly wasting away, and he still didn't fully understand why or how he could fix things.

"I didn't want this for you. I'm sorry..." Sherlock drew his hands to his mouth in a prayer form, mumbling, eyes searching, mind processing. "You deserved to live a fear-free life if just for a moment, I wanted to give you that atleast. Moriarty-"

John pushed past him, clutching his hair, practically stomping into the living room before whirling round to face Sherlock who stood in the doorway.

"Don't say that name!" His eyes darted away, the barest hint of a tremor, that blasted tremor, in his hands as he wiped them across his face. He dropped them resolutely next to his sides, clenching them into fists, a nod of his head, a decision finally made.

"I've done a lot of things in my life, Sherlock. For others, and yes, for myself, right or wrong, I've...tried."

Sherlock was frozen. Suddenly, it was_ his_ palms sweating,_ his_ heart accelerating. He could see it all in John's face, he was going to do it, say the one thing that he hadn't even allowed himself to entertain. It was all unravelling underneath him and he was woefully short on information to mitigate the damage. Sherlock had to do_ something_, he hadn't accounted for this, oh God how could he be so stupid not to account for this? This-

"I have been embarrassed before, read the signs wrong, got myself into trouble... Been fooled more than once, by lesser men and women...But I have never felt such shame for knowing someone, as I do with you right now."

_This rejection._

"I'm ashamed because... I would let you do this to me a thousand times over, forever if you wanted it... Just because you wanted it." John looked imploringly at him, eyes showing just the barest glimmer of tears, before his expression levelled and guarded itself again. Another tip of his head, he had decided, he was going to be firm.

"Aaaand i hate myself for it. I brought this on myself I know now... I was warned off plenty of times and I was stubborn and ignored them. But I can't...I can't deal with this. No way. Which is why you'll have to kiss this face goodbye." He closed his eyes with a pained expression. "I just can't stay here. With you-"

Sherlock's impossibly long stride covered the distance between them instantly, acting on impulse. Before John could react, Sherlock had both hands in his hair, leaning in close. With one swift arch down, Sherlock pressed his lips to Johns and kissed him hard, as if John had been the one to come back from the dead. As if it was Sherlock who was the desperate and distraught one.

Caught by the total surprise of it, Sherlock practically dragged them together, wrapping strong arms around him. A terrible thrill struck through John's body like a lightening bolt, and just for an instant he forgot _everything._

Confusion, doubt, longing-

"What the Hell is wrong with you?!" John pulled away, knocking Sherlocks arms wide, freeing himself to stagger backwards into the coffee table. John didn't know it then, but he would remember much later in vivid detail, the briefly petulant look Sherlock gave him. The one that said 'but I'm not done!' A few shocked blinks from John and Sherlock just looked like himself again, as if nothing had changed.

John shook his head from side to side, scrunching his eyes shut, trying to speak. "goddamit Sherlock, it - that- it was just an expression! Not a request!"

"I know..." he replied simply, as if what had just occurred was completely normal for them. "I also know that you will never forgive me for all that I have put you through." He took a deep breath, some obvious things were hard to admit even for him. "And I will never ask you to forgive me. I have no right to. I know.

"But... you are right, I guess I am a coward of sorts. I would not have...handled... it any better if the tables were reversed. This was easy for me. Or rather, 'easier'...And I love to win. I need it, sometimes... To know that I can find a way around the impossible."

John bristled but let him continue, trying to forget they had just snogged for want of a better word, this was important.

"But you need to admit to yourself that had our roles been reversed and _you_ had it within your grasp to beat the game, win it all back, save everyone important to you, you _would_ have taken that chance!"

"The game... The bloody game!" John laughed derisively and Sherlock waved it away.

"Don't twist it, you know what i'm trying to say." He drew close again, grabbing John by the upper arms, and baring down on him with those piercing sea-grey eyes. "I'm trying to tell you something important, John, so just listen! Really understand that I could have just stayed dead. I could have done it. But this...all that we have been through..." Sherlock looked at him earnestly, but John kept his mouth closed, he was really going to have to spell it out to him.

"I came back for you, John. _Only you_." Sherlock's gaze softened, and John cursed the butterflies plaguing his stomach. "I thought you wanted this..."

He watched John's expression flinch, a nervous twitch jerking at the edge of his mouth, even as the glimmer returned to his eyes it was all Dr John Watson Stiff Upper Lip, but the twitch gave him away so fully... Sherlock had seen the signs before in another, even if John wasn't ready to acknowledge them. Rapid pulse, shallow breathing, a distinct dilation in the eyes... so subtle, and so painful for Sherlock as he faced his traumatised best friend. He knew he had made the right choices at the time, but now, seeing how he completely underestimated how John would cope...the guilt was real and suffocating. He just wanted to come home. Like before. To be together again.

"You're...you're just saying that... You think I want to hear it, so you say it and don't mean a word of it."

"You don't believe that." Sherlock said with conviction.

A slamming front door and footsteps running up the stairs broke the spell that lingered over them. It gave John the chance to shake free of his grip with a grunt, heading straight back to his room.

"I'll prove it!" Sherlock yelled after him as Lestrade rounded on to the landing with a worried look.

John slammed the door closed behind him, leaning his back against it, holding on to the fury and pain that wanted to spill out of his mouth.

His mouth...

It wasn't until after Sherlock and Lestrade had left a few minutes later, the rumble of reporters flaring up in the distance, that John allowed himself to run the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. There was a taste. A something 'other'. Something he knew now to be definitively Sherlock. And a hot blaze of salt in the corner. Just one tear track... he was getting better, he was getting stronger. It was important.

He let out a loud groan. The Kiss. Forever capitalised. How long had he told himself he hadn't wanted that, that the grief was just regular friend-loses-friend grief? Sherlock had probably only done it to be funny, to try and dampen his temper, to try and get his own way, he just wanted to-

John practically jumped out of his skin as his phone vibrated loudly against the bedside table. Two text messages. Three missed calls. His therapist had clearly seen the papers, as had his sister Harry.

We need to bring your appointment forward - Ella T.

Tel me its a rly sick jk rite?! - Harry

And one incoming as he held it:

DON'T GO. -SH


	4. Chapter 4

Holy crap I'm so happy with the response to this, the level of support so soon is really just so amazing, thank you! I really didn't expect much as this wasn't something I originally intended to show online, it was just a personal set of scenes I had stuck in my head.

Anyway with that said, you'll notice that I expressly don't refer to how Sherlock pulled off the trick, or exactly who was in on it. I'm more focused on moving them forward and I'm hoping for some longevity to the story past series 3 so I don't want to get too many things wrong. Okay back to the story! Hopefully not too fluffy! A lot longer too but I really couldn't bring myself to split it!

**Chapter 4**

John hadn't experienced tension like this since he was rolled out on his first tour, suited and booted, guns strapped in and medikit digging into his back. You would have needed a power saw to cut through the silence that filled every inch of 221-B.

Three days passed in high stress. Three days of John leaving the room when Sherlock came in. Three days of Sherlock attempting to break the ice by repeatedly making John horrible cups of tea which he absolutely would not drink. And three full days of John mentally berating himself for stealing glances at his flatmate at every opportunity.

Something had to give and it happened on day four. John was cornered leaving the kitchen after pouring away another neglected tea.

"Would you have actually preferred it if I really was dead?" Sherlock said, hands on hips. John felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He'd almost forgotten how scathingly insensitive Sherlock could be when he opened his mouth.

"I would have 'actually preferred it' if you hadn't lied to me or make me watch you skydive off a building only to pop back into my life months later and say 'oh no worries John it was just a trick lets get back down to business'!" John moved past him into the living room, punching Sherlock hard in the upper arm as he went. He gave a small grunt in pain, but didn't retaliate, just followed slowly as John whirled on him. "How can you even say that to me? I _waited_ for you!"

Sherlock rubbed his arm, frowning. It was hard to know if he was confused or just thinking hard, so all John could do was wait for him to respond. He shuffled on his feet, finding it difficult to stay still even with his disciplined army training. He hadn't meant to say that last bit, he didn't want to do this.

"And by 'waited' you mean...?"

John blinked, from the tone of his voice he was clearly referring to something else, something quite possibly related to the 'miscommunication' that happened by the coffee table earlier in the week. He stammered, cheeks reddening ever so slightly. "I mean... I didn't believe that you were a fraud, that you were...really gone, actually gone... And I thought - I got it into my head - that I just had to wait a little while and you... You would be back."

Was he actually... disappointed? "Oh." Sherlock's mouth formed the sound slowly, and John's eyes flicked down to his lips before he forced them back up to his eyes. Sherlock saw.

"I'm not gay, Sherlock." John blurted out, mentally kicking himself at how mature he absolutely did not sound. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk slightly, and that irked John even more. "I... well, whatever, it doesn't matter. Anyway the point is, after the first month, it really hit me that it was all over. You weren't coming back. Things... They just got away from me after that."

"Your job was something that 'just got away from you'?"

John stared at him in disbelief, was he actively trying to antagonise him? Talk about salt in the wound! _Wound..._

"A man with curly hair like yours stumbled into the clinic with a head-wound like yours, the one you _mocked up_, and I fainted in the reception in front of about twenty patients and doctors... Bit hard to maintain a credible reputation after that."

Sherlock drew a breath to speak, but John continued, the anger made it possible to fight over the urge to run away. "Since you're so keen to stick the knife in, how about I bring you fully up to speed? Right well, you'll be glad to know that I'm at least used to the reporters camped outside our front door, since that's why it was virtually impossible for me to return to my own home the first time round. I'm sure Lestrade filled you in on the two noses I broke, and Mycroft has no doubt thoroughly enjoyed distributing my therapists notes to you, so how about I just cut to the juicy bits?"

"Fine, yes, go on, if it makes you feel better." Sherlock said, his voice dangerously low, eyes dark.

"It does actually!" John replied, with a hard laugh. "Okay, well, you're well acquainted with the vomiting, that kicked in shortly after the funeral but it really took off after fainting at work like a big girls blouse." John became more animated, pacing around, recalling all the embarrassingly weak moments he'd succumbed to in the last six months. "There was a spectacularly amazing time paying a surcharge to a cabbie for his cleaning bill because I hadn't realised he'd be taking me past the bloody hospital, but after losing my job I was at least at home enough to reach the bathroom in time, practically on a daily basis-"

"I realise that what I did aggravated your post traumatic stress-"

"Aggravated it? You blew it out of the fucking water Sherlock!" John's hands were shaking again, and the whites of his eyes were just too stark. "You might as well have pushed _me_ off that building!" He screamed, voice twisting a little hysterically at the end. Sherlock saw what was about to happen and needed to prevent another panic attack. He quickly put his hands on John's shoulders, with the intention of forcibly sitting him down but John immediately struggled to free himself, kicking out but failing to connect. "Get off me!"

Sherlock managed to twist him round, using John's crossed arms to pin him with his back against Sherlock's chest. The effect not unlike wearing a straight jacket. Not giving in so easily, John tried to hook his leg around Sherlock's to trip him, but the taller man side stepped, pulling John back with him. With a stifled yell, John pushed back on his feet, throwing his weight into Sherlock, forcing him to fall back hard into the wall unit between the kitchen and the door- still Sherlock held firm.

"John, John _calm down_, stop it!" He shook John. "You're going to crash again if you don't just calm down, take deep breaths-"

"Oh easy to do when you're _crushing me_-"

"Shut up and _breathe_." Sherlock ordered, his voice physically brushing past his ear. John went very still at this new sensation, chest heaving, eyes still wide but for an entirely different reason. A scarier one.

"That's right... Breathe in, let it out, keep the rhythm..." If John didn't know any better, the rich sound of Sherlock's voice was less soothing and more... No he wasn't even going to think it. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. He'd gone mad, he'd completely lost it. Maybe they both had.

John was acutely aware of each and every syllable aimed at him in that warm baritone. He had to get it together, he had to focus on his breathing, to get out, to get away from this- from what he was feeling. He ground his teeth, it was bad enough that his body consistently disobeyed him, but now his own thoughts were going down avenues that were unfamiliar territory. He was just mixed up emotionally, he was confusing the relief and pain of Sherlock's return with something entirely inappropriate. Misdirection, manipulation-

"I'm sorry John, I will never regret saving your life. I'm selfish...I'd rather have you broken than not at all." He whispered. "I don't lose... and I certainly don't share."

John's voice wavered, but it would take more than a few choice words to subdue him. "I'm not your _toy_, you can't just pick me up and put me down when you want. Stop trying to manipulate me-"

"I fixed you once, I can fix this, just let me try, please."

"You just want a new project-!"

"No, I don't... That isn't why..." John gasped as he felt a hot touch on the side of his throat, Sherlock had _dared_ to press a kiss on him for the second time. But it was less the kiss he was terrified of, but more the way his body relaxed into it for a moment. There was that reprieve, that moment of blissful mind-cutting-out silence like before.

Of course John's frayed nerves would only tolerate it for so long. He snapped back to reality so fast that his head jerked straight into Sherlock's with a crack. Sherlock gave a muffled yell. Catching them both in surprise, John was released and Sherlock grabbed his own nose instead, covering it with both hands. John realised instantly what he'd done.

"Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I honestly didn't mean to!" He reached for him, but Sherlock turned away.

"Don't look, it's fine, I'm fine." Sherlock insisted, eyes watering. John pulled him back round so that they were facing each other again. "John, don't-!'

But it was too late, John could see the blood flowing out through Sherlock's fingers. Even through his teary eyes, he could see the cascade effect of John's nervous system kicking in to force a shut down. The terror on his face was gut-wrenching.

John moved back, unable to tear his eyes away from the blood. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Oh _God_-" John's words began to slur as the blood drained out if his face, it was happening, it was all happening again in his mind. "Surprised me... _Sheerrlock_... Ohhh God no..."

Ignoring his nosebleed temporarily, Sherlock managed to hook an arm under one of John's as the smaller man tipped to the side, legs giving way, eyes rolling back into his head as the sudden retreating blood took away his sight. John ended crumpled up in a dead faint, half on top of Sherlock who had quickly crouched down to take his weight. He deftly shifted John around on to his back, raising his legs up onto his armchair to try and get the blood flow going back to his head again.

Once that was done, he got out his handkerchief and mopped up his face as best he could- luckily it was a superficial bleed that was already stopping. Sherlock got up, moving quickly to the kitchen, washed his hands clean and dampened some kitchen roll. He went back to John's side, clearing up the few red splashes on his prone friend as best he could.

Sherlock's nose had stopped bleeding properly a minute or so later, just as John started to come round, murmuring. He took John's pulse, and pushed back the sweat-matted hair that clung to John's forehead, accidentally smearing a missed bit of blood on him. Sherlock sighed, this whole situation was a complete mess. Slowly he leant over and used his sleeve cuff to wipe the red off his friends face.

John reached up and shakily caught Sherlock's wrist, frown weak, but eye sight back again at least. "Are you...okay?" John murmured, trying to find his voice.

Sherlock looked away, half smiling and surprisingly upset, although he kept it reigned in. He took John's hand in his own and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. John had always taken care of Sherlock, _constantly_, and here he was apologising and worried, putting his own rights and well being to the side. Again. Even now. Sherlock forced a grin.

"I'm absolutely fine. Just a bit worried about where this is all leading- I mean I've had vomit on me, now blood. I'm just waiting to see who'll be queuing up to piss on me next. I fear it could be a substantially long line."

John actually giggled. Possibly brought on by the disorientation, but it was a relief to hear that sound again, he couldn't begin to describe how heavy the absence of it had weighed on him. But Sherlock knew that a few wisecracks would not spell the end of all that was messed up between them. Things had significantly changed.

Sherlock studied his prone companion, watching the blue tinge fade from his lips, colour slowly returning to his face. Saw the exact moment when the post-faint headache kicked in. "Painkillers? I'll get them-"

Sherlock went to rise but John stopped him, refusing to release his hand. "Don't, I'll be alright in a minute."

Sea-grey eyes narrowed, jaw tightened. "No...you won't."

John couldn't meet his gaze, the truth of that comment might as well have been hung in neon lights above them.

"I will be one day though." John started, and Sherlock looked at him, hopeful. "But only if you tell me- if you promise me- that you are never going to pull a stunt like that again." They both knew he wasn't talking about the kiss, well, _kisses_. The harrowing tone to his voice could only refer to Sherlocks attempt at flying. John swallowed hard, suddenly very interested in examining the lines on Sherlock's knuckles. "I can't do this again if I can't trust you."

It was more than Sherlock could have ever hoped to get. But John saw the hesitation in his face, and understood what it meant. He really had thought he was doing the right thing, had needed to protect them in his own way. It really wasn't as twisted as he had thought. The high functioning sociopath did what he needed to do when others wouldn't, and damn anyone that got in his way. John was mixed up in there somewhere, but for why he didn't know.

"By stunt, I don't really mean the... sacrifice bit... I'm talking about the lying through your teeth and shutting me out bit."

Sherlock knew that John had a strong, set value system that often deviated quite radically from his own, but he really hadn't accounted for the effect it had had on John's pride. Being the last one to know was a humiliating experience for him, it wasn't that he was hurt about not being in on the secret, it was the knowledge that his suffering could have been shortened considerably. That people he saw on a sometimes daily basis saw what was happening to him and had said nothing.

"You're right to be angry with me, but not the others. I forced them, John. They knew Moriarty had to be stopped, I could do it. It had to be real." Sherlock released John's hand, and pulled his own knees up to his chest, in that childish way he often did when he was bored, or grumpy, or restless. This time was different. Now he had a very open vulnerability on his face. Neither of them was used to this. John stared up at the ceiling, afraid to move.

"You want me to be completely honest with you, well, here it is. I wasn't coming back. I saw you standing at my grave and I was firm still, I wasn't. Coming. Back." Sherlock allowed himself to look at John lying next to him, but kept his eyes on his hands. "I fully expected to continue unhindered outside the country using a pseudonym. Go deducing under some foreign rocks as you would put it, and I managed it." His mouth had a slight sneer to it. "I _managed_, I coped, I was adequate... I just... couldn't excel, I couldn't amaze, I couldn't _astound_."

John's sardonic comment came out of his mouth before he could stop it. "This was some kind of an apology right.. ?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I was just getting to the part where I realised that I was too distracted to complete my work efficiently."

"...Distracted?"

"Yes, it's surprisingly difficult to be efficient when you don't have an ex army doctor badgering you to eat and sleep, someone to bounce ideas off of, a man I mysteriously could not stop from pervading my thoughts-"

"No one says _pervading_-"

"Someone to be there and tell me when I was being 'a bit not good' and offer undying support and loyalty to me even when I am being difficult and yes, sometimes I was difficult on purpose I admit that! I have an ego, I can't apologise for that it's who I am, but there was no one there to tell me how brilliant I was anymore-"

"Yes I can see your ego is thankfully unharmed-"

Sherlock growled in frustration, scrambling on to his knees and glaring quite forcibly over John. "I'm trying to say that as much as it pains my ego to say it, I am better with you." John's mouth closed, Sherlock took a deep breath, seemingly analysing every part of the face of the man below him. "I'm _infinitely_ better with you. Moriarty was afraid of that..." Sherlock's eyes softened. "You matter to me... I wanted to stay away to protect you from my enemies, to give you your life back."

John's stiff spine was telling him he should get up off the hard floor, but Sherlock's hand gently touching the side of his face was telling him something completely different.

"You... need me... to be better...?"

"Not as straight forward- as selfish - as you might think though John." He let his hand fall away, he might have actually looked a bit shy. "Quite contrary to my nature, I realised I always want to be better... for you. When you are happy... I can be happy. And I do know how to make you happy, John." He smiled, a somewhat sly edge to it, as John's eyebrows shot up, but he continued before John could interrupt.

"I got tired very quickly of just imagining your comments, your voice, even more so when it was in my nightmares." Sherlock's expression changed to very-matter-of-fact, sitting back against the armchair abruptly. "So I had to come back." And that signalled the end of Sherlock and John's heart to heart.

"Right. Yes. No, of course." John was stumbling his words, finally easing himself into a sitting position, rubbing the pins and needles out of his legs. He was terribly fatigued, but his heart was pounding.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, John. It was extremely shortsighted of me."

John coughed, nodding, waving his hands in a very over the top and dismissive 'no problem mate' gesture. He was finding it hard to swallow, his mouth had gone completely dry as all the moisture in his body seemed to be busy making his hands clammy.

Sherlock stood up and offered a hand to John, who declined, rather ungracefully pulling himself to his feet using the armchair as leverage. He perched on the arm to get his bearings. Sherlock left him where he sat, dropping the dirty kitchen roll onto the table, sitting down and opening up John's laptop, logging on with John's password. It was a few seconds before John realised something.

"Wait, you didn't actually answer me."

"No, John."

"What do you mean, no?"

"No I will _not_ promise you that I will never pull a stunt like that again, and no I will _not_ promise you that I will not lie to you if I think it will save your life." Sherlock swivelled the laptop round, looking directly at John with an 'and thats final' expression. John was stunned. "Now are you going to sit there sulking like an open-mouthed guppy or are you going to help me solve this case?"


	5. Chapter 5

Hello all! I'm flabbergasted, truly, madly, deeply, at the level of support I've been receiving. There are not enough adjectives to describe how I feel about you all! :)

Notes:  
- Previous chapter four has had a tidy, nothing major changed at all- but I did add a bit extra to the nosebleed situation, Sherlock needed to clean up a bit more for realism  
- Non-British people reading this should be aware that there might be a few slang terms/swear words in the chapter below - hope it doesn't interfere too much for your reading experience :)  
- Sorry if the occasional sexual tension seems drawn out, this is not a story that will completely revolve around smut (as much as I love that! Lol). I'm trying in my own way to show how recovery from betrayal is hard and fraught with difficulty (especially when it's hard enough to talk about those feelings)...but if you can survive it, the rewards are worth the pain :)

Now on with the show!

**Chapter 5**

_John, please contact me,we need to get your next appointment in - Ella T._

John's therapist had sent that text earlier in the day, but he'd only just got round to reading it and deleting it. It was half past midnight, and he was down some disused transport tunnels, affectionately named 'The Ratway.' It was a notorious sleeping spot for the homeless community in London, so notorious infact that it was just as well that he slept badly and was up at strange hours, because he had to avoid volunteers bringing down care packages.

The people here practically knew all about him and Sherlock, and that he was until recently an officially practising doctor, but it made his life a lot easier to do his work in secret. Discretion was a key part to the whole routine, especially when he was carrying a selection from the bulk order of medical supplies he'd bought with proceeds from Sherlock's estate. These people needed medical help, and he didn't need the trouble of a few noisy civilians reporting him. It was hard enough avoiding reporters without being pulled in to answer to Lestrade.

Yes, the supplies had been tricky to source, but as long as no one was directly looking, he was fine. Plus it would be a media riot if Doctor Watson was found guilty of helping the homeless, because thats literally what it would come down to in the end. And let Sherlock's bastard brother say what he liked about it, he wasn't scared of him.

"Roll up your sleeve, please, I need to take your blood pressure."

The older man he was examining had been on the streets so long he couldn't remember how old he was. Two weeks ago he had cut his leg and got a small but irritated infection for which John had administered antibiotics. It was good to see that he was recovering nicely, it made him felt like he was still good for something, that he wasn't a complete waste of air. Having someone else to make small talk with outside of the whole business at 221-B was also s huge bonus. It was just unfortunate that he didn't have time to stay longer, he still had so many people to see.

Like him, the general consensus in the homeless network was that they'd never lost faith in Sherlock. He'd received many condolences, and many more conspiracy theories. But it was easier here to forget about things... people typically said what they had to say and moved on without wrapping John up in cotton, worried he might break.

These people knew what it was like, they had seen suicide before, they had felt death before. However, now, after reading the stories in the paper, John couldn't help but wonder... to wonder if certain sympathisers had been trying to tell him something after all...

Was he getting more paranoid, or just more pessimistic? His head was telling him it was a mistake to stay at the apartment, but his heart was saying another thing entirely. He felt like he was being stretched two ways, each millimetre threatening to completely rip him down the centre.

"_John_."

He opened one eye to see Sherlock peering over him, his stomach still flipped over at the sight. He wished it wouldn't. "What time is it?"

"Quarter to three. Come on." Sherlock pulled him to his feet, up off the cardboard someone had been kind enough to let him rest on. He picked up Johns bag and handed it to him. A few sleepy and curious eyes looked out of the shadows at them both, whispering amongst each other.

"What are you doing here?"

"You do know you have a bed back at Baker Street." Sherlock snapped a little tersely. "You weren't answering your phone so I followed the GPS."

John followed him through the tunnel. "It was on silent, and since when do I have a tracker on my-"

"I mean what is the point of you even owning a phone if you don't answer it?"

"Would you lower your voice- people are trying to sleep." John hissed.

"Oi!" An angry shout echoed towards them, a figure stood silhouetted against the dim light ahead. John muttered an 'oh great' under his breath. They really didn't need to be disturbing everyone like this.

John stepped in front of Sherlock, a subconscious movement, raising his hands a little in an attempt to pacify the figure. "Sorry mate, we're just heading off." As he got closer however, he recognised the youth in front of him. "Will?"

"Doc, what the hell is _he_ doing here?" Will was twenty one years old, with dark auburn hair and light brown eyes, which were currently aimed with a disgusted look at Sherlock. Will had taken a shine to John after he'd treated his sprained ankle, an injury he'd sustained trying to defend one of his friends from having the crap beaten out of her. "You've got some bloody nerve!"

John tried to steer Will away from Sherlock, but he slipped around under his arm, moving straight into Sherlock's personal space, jabbing him in the chest. "Didn't take you long to worm your way back into his life did it, you jumped up prick!"

Sherlock took one quick glance over the redhead, the results of which appeared to confirm his initial assessment. He didn't find the youth the least bit threatening. He glanced over to John, the corner of his mouth raising slightly. John quickly yanked Will back using the scruff of his coat collar, in an attempt to get him away from Sherlock before he completely kicked off.

"Come on, back up." Fierce loyalty was something Will and John both had in common, so he couldn't be upset with him for being defensive. And if he was honest, it was good to think he still knew someone who wanted to stand up for him, even if Will's way of doing it was a little over zealous.

"So what's going on then? This wanker is back and you're both _shacked up_ together again?" Will spat, turning his anger on John.

"We're not - dammit Will there is _nothing_ going on -"

"No need to deny it John, we are back together, yes, at Baker Street." Sherlock said, resuming his course towards the exit, head held high as he strode past the two of them. John practically had to wrench Will backwards, further in, to try and avoid him from side swiping Sherlock as he passed.

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake-!" Whilst he hadn't lied, it was completely the wrong way to declare it. He just loved making things more difficult for him clearly.

"You're a real piece of work! You think you can just walk in here and sweep him off his feet, and everything will be fan-fucking-tastic! _Go and break someone else's heart you fucking dickhead!_" Shouts of 'shut up!' mixed in with a bunch of disgruntled expletives echoed back at them over the top of Will's shouting from other people in The Ratway.

"I'll be outside when you're done John." Sherlock called with a wave over his shoulder, not looking back. John led Will by the arm over to a partition in the tunnel wall, but it wasn't until Sherlock was out of sight that Will actually turned his attention back on John, calming down relatively quickly. Somewhat unkindly, he was reminded of an over protective lap dog, but he regretted the thought immediately. Will was a good kid, he was just stupidly impulsive sometimes. It got him into trouble too often.

"You're not actually going with him... are you?" Will was genuinely upset at this, and John felt the pull on his heart strings.

"Will, look, I'm really tired." He went to interrupt again, but John put a hand up to shush him. "I appreciate your concern for me, but really it's fine. It's all under control. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing."

He didn't know what he was doing.

"It's kind of unavoidable at the moment."

Actually he could have left at any time.

"Really, it's just...a bit complicated."

Understatement of the century.

Will didn't seem to be convinced either, so John resorted to cheap tactics. "Here." He dug into his pocket and fished out a twenty pound note, at least he hadn't been mugged whilst he was asleep- it had happened before, but... desperate times for some and all that. He stuffed it into Will's hand, who looked both offended and grateful at the same time. "Get yourself something hot to eat tomorrow. How's the ankle holding up?"

Will's mouth drew into a thin line, looking down. "You can do better than him, Doc."

John sighed in frustration. "I. Am. _Not_. Dating. Sherlock. Holmes. Why is that always the first thing people think? We are not a couple!" A kiss and a half, hand holding, tears... Okay so people hadn't seen most of that, but he was getting dangerously close to starring in his own dodgy chick-flick at this rate. What a complete farce this was turning out to be.

"But he said-"

"Ignore everything that man says to you, he's just being a total prat. As usual." John squeezed Will's shoulder reassuringly. "Seriously, get some food in you. I'll be back down in a couple of days, I want to see you with a bit more colour in your face."

Will nodded, fingering the money in his hand as John gave a wave goodbye and hurried down towards the exit.

_Of course_ Sherlock was waiting in a cab, and _of course_ John got into said cab and slammed the door shut. Sherlock made a little tutting noise. "John, people are trying to sleep."

"You are..." John shook his head in disbelief, speaking deliberately slowly to emphasis each word. "A _supreme_ pillock sometimes."

They travelled mainly in silence back to Baker Street, the only thing said was a curt 'Leave it' when Sherlock attempted to move John's bag from between them on to the floor.

John was through the door and half way up the stairs before Sherlock spoke. "So it's not that you have developed a problem with blood altogether?" John hefted up the bag on his shoulder to stop it from falling as he turned around on the stairs to face Sherlock. But he was already clarifying before John had even formed a question. "You've got a small blood smear on the outside cuff of your jumper. It wasn't the one you were wearing yesterday, so it couldn't be mine. I trust you wore gloves."

"It's unpredictable, Sherlock." John whispered, conscious of the hour. "Hence why I have little chance of holding down a steady job." Even less chance now that Sherlock was back. Sarah had been more than understanding before, he was unlikely to find another boss as agreeable or as lovely. He hadn't thought about her quite as much as he probably should have. His mind insisted on being elsewhere these days... "And yes of course I wore gloves. I'm _unemployed_, not thick."

"Aren't you worried about losing your license?" Sherlock asked, following him up the stairs. He steered John into the living space before he could escape up to his own room. John was exhausted but knew he wouldn't get any rest at all at this rate if he resisted. He flopped down on the sofa as Sherlock threw his coat off, which ended up half over John. Who then shoved it off, not caring if the bloody thing got all creased up. Sherlock switched on a small lamp, moving to stand by one of the windows, in his typical 'I'm looming' fashion. John rolled his eyes.

"No I'm not worried. It expires in a couple of months anyway." He got his mobile out, flicking through the text messages with increasing annoyance.

_John, where are the Petri dishes? -SH_

_It's important- SH_

_The Petri dishes John -SH_

_You need to replace the blue washing up bowl- SH_

_Where are you? -SH_

_Can you get me some Petri dishes, it's urgent- SH_

"You aren't planning to renew it then?"

"Petri dishes? This is why you woke me up?"

"You were lying on top of some Walkers Crisps packing boxes, you should be thanking me, your back most certainly will."

"Technically I wouldn't have been there if it wasn't for you, so a thank you is pretty unlikely."

Sherlock lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with a small but deep sigh. It looked like the last few days were really getting to him too, maybe even the last six months as well. There was that _pull_ again. Half of John wanting to gloat and say 'ha, you deserved that!' The other half however... John blushed, a little ashamed at how much he just wanted to ask Sherlock to come sit with him, to be that little bit _closer._

"...You're still mad at me?" Sherlock asked, turning his head just enough to outline his profile. John became aware that he was staring a little too much at the way shadows played across his flatmates' face. His flatmates' mouth...He cleared his throat, turning back to his phone.

"No..." Well, he was, but he really didn't have the energy for another fight. "No, I'm just... tired." Part truth then.

"Did I not leave you enough?"

"Enough what?"

"Enough _money_, John."

He was nowhere near awake enough to try and predict where Sherlock was going with this, not that he was particularly great with a clear head either, but his sleep-deprived brain was definitely a hindrance. He might have been wondering why John didn't just use the money to live off of, but he'd never really been made that way.

"No, you left me a huge amount... Which I'm glad I didn't really use because it's going back to your life insurance provider. I didn't even know you had life insurance until recently-"

"So you did use some of it then. From my estate?"

"Yes. I paid off Mrs Hudson's mortgage and stocked up on supplies, alright?"

"Oh... Yes well... I should have expected that." John noted that the nets appeared to be receiving the frowning of a lifetime from the worlds only consulting detective. He should have just left it there, but the question slipped out.

"You were hoping for something else?"

Sherlock seemed to debate whether he should answer, and when Sherlock considered things lately, it made John nervous. "I thought it would help you to set up your own clinic actually."

John remembered having to sit through the will reading, opposite Mycroft. The last time he'd seen the man before the confrontation at St. Barts.

'_To the man, my brother Mycroft Holmes, who has everything, I leave nothing. To the man, my most trusted confidante Dr John Watson, who wanted nothing, I leave everything...'_

John could feel his throat tightening at the memory, clutching his phone a little too hard. He thought back to the shredded newspapers. Trusted enough to be the main beneficiary of Sherlock's wealth, just not enough to go with him into a new life. John levelled his gaze, eyes feeling a bit hot. Had he really wanted that? Would he have cut all his ties for Sherlock?

"There are always others to consider, Sherlock." And then more forcefully. "Besides, it's never sat quite right with me, the whole profiting from a loved ones death thing-"

"Loved one." Two words that rolled out of Sherlock's mouth just a little too smoothly. The hairs on the back of Johns neck actually stood on end. He was getting that mixed up feeling again.

He could see out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock was regarding him seriously. The intensity of his gaze burned a path up the side of his arm, seeming to find the one spot on his neck that was visible above his jumper, the spot they both knew for a fact Sherlock had put his lips on -lingering there- before finally rising to John's face. John felt like a rabbit caught in headlights, but he stared resolutely ahead. This only lasted about ten seconds at most however, as soon enough his ears picked up the fact that Sherlock was taking off his suit jacket.

John couldn't help himself. How could he stop from looking at the one person he'd tuned his whole life into? It was impossible, even with all the anger and hurt that rolled still, inside of him.

He stole a look out if the corner of his eye, but it was enough to note with terrifying clarity the exact way Sherlocks dark curls shadowed his eyes... He could track each subtle flex of Sherlock's back and shoulder muscles hidden under that dark blue silk shirt, as the man twirled his jacket off with a twist of one arm. Sherlock hooked the jacket on to the back of the chair by the table, then leaned forward slightly on the back of it.

The lamplight flashed on those strangely tinted eyes, which were suddenly looking _right back at him._ How could his expression be so innocent and yet so... predatory?

"Bed?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"God yes." John blurted out, feeling the instant rush of embarrassment showing in his cheeks as he played back in his head _exactly_ what that must have sounded like. Because, no way had Sherlock been propositioning him. And no way for a split second had he, even on a subconscious level, actually answered said non-proposal. No way.

John cleared his throat nervously, Sherlock was still staring at him. "Yes, um, good idea. Absolutely shattered. Ah...g'night then."

He pulled himself up in a rush, nearly dropping his mobile, but caught it at the last second. Sherlock watched him leave the room, come back in and pick up his bag, then leave again.

"Night, John."

He looked over his shoulder to see if he had heard laughter in that voice, but Sherlock had turned away... Already very busy examining a Petri dish in the light of the living room lamp.


	6. Chapter 6

I will never stop thanking you all. Add me on tumblr you gorgeous lot ( thefarfire) and I'll follow back.  
Please excuse any missed grammar, bad spellings- I do this all on my mobile phone and was just desperate to get it out to you all. I will go through it with a fine tooth comb ASAP please don't be too annoyed! :') - Far Fire

**Chapter 6**

John gripped the covers, scrunching his face into the pillow as he contracted against the mattress. A stifled howl through clenched teeth filled his ears as he was shoved back into consciousness.

Flashes of the nightmare made him jerk up off his front, catching his back on the corner of the nightstand. The lamp wobbled, and he shot out a hand on reflex, fingertips clasping the shade as it tipped, but to no avail, as the weight of the lamp base popped it out of the frame and dropped to the floor with a resounding smash.

He was completely frozen for a few seconds, just staring at the lampshade he still held in his outstretched hand. But then a small throb of pain went through his back and his shocked expression crumpled into one of frustration and fiery rage. In that moment, it felt like the lamp represented him and everything wrong with his life. It didn't seem to matter how much he struggled or how much he wanted something, it all just fell apart in his hands.

John completely _lost_ it, repeatedly smashing the shade on the nightstand until the fabric tore and the metal frame buckled apart, before launching it across the room, narrowly missing the window.

He covered his face with his hands, blocking out the light that fell over him through the curtains, muttering half reassurances and orders to himself to just bloody _calm down_. John's shoulders shuddered as he sagged forwards, elbows digging into the tops if his legs. His eyes were just watering, they were _not_ tears and he was _not_ afraid of bad dreams. He was not a textbook post-traumatised soldier, _this wasn't him_, this wasn't all he had to offer.

John wiped the moisture from his eyes, swallowed back down the heavy lump that had lodged in his throat and scooted off the bed, avoiding the broken bits of lamp. He looked at his shaking hands, then at the wardrobe, specifically the bottom half. Inside, in an 8 digit combination lock safe, was his store of medicinal supplies. He mentally ran through the list of painkillers...ashamed to admit to himself that the phrase_ 'just to take the edge off_' had actually entered into his mind.

"John dear, is everything alright?"

Hearing Mrs Hudsons' voice was not unlike being little and getting caught by his mother when he was doing something wrong. It gave him the mental slap that he needed. No. Think again. He was never going to compromise himself that way. Not willingly.

John hurriedly began kicking off the clothes he'd slept in, pulling open the drawer that contained his jogging clothes. "Just a small accident with the lamp!" He called, his voice husky from sleep. One leg, two legs, socks, socks, where the bugger where they hiding?

A minute or so later, he opened the door, pushing his feet into his trainers, knowing full well that Mrs Hudson was going to be lurking down on the next level somewhere. He swung the door closed behind him, and hopped down the stairs, flicking his dark grey hood up over his head.

Sure enough the landlady popped her head around the living room door, a stretched and false smile on her face. He was all too familiar with it these days. Even had one of his own to respond with.  
"Just off for a run." He hoped the hood would hide his face and sore eyes enough to avoid anymore pitying looks from her. He needed exercise, he needed endorphins, he needed natures' all wholesome depression remedy, not sympathy. "Not sure when I'll be back."

"Oh, that'll do you the world of good!" She patted his arm with nowhere near the strength that she used to use. It had been hard after... St. Barts. He wished he'd come back sooner to help her, but in all honesty, right now he had bigger regrets crowded inside his mind. Things would get better though. He had to hold on to that. John knew Mrs Hudson was. "Well, if you're not back before Sherlock, did you want me to give him a message?" There was something in her expression that he couldn't quite read.

"He's out already?" John looked at his watch. 10.56? Of course he'd be out. Sherlock had better things to do than stare at his miserable face all day- "Uh, well, if he asks just let him know I've gone out for some exercise."

"Okay dear," she stood at the top of the stairs, worrying the beads on her necklace between her fingers as John descended down the stairs two at a time. "Be careful though, those bloody reporters are-"

The rest of her sentence was lost in the furore that waited outside as John stepped out into Baker Street. He kept his head down moving forward, chin tucked to his chest as reporters jostled him, firing the same questions they'd been desperate to have answered all week.

"Dr Watson, can we get a quote regarding your reaction to the return of Sherlock Holmes?"  
"Who do you plan to sell your exclusive story to?"  
"Did you honestly not know he was alive?"  
"How did you celebrate your reunion?"  
"What cases are you working on next?"  
"Are you still in therapy?"

John's head snapped up, even past the flashes of cameras and the noise and all those _damn_ microphones and recorders shoved in his face, he could recognise that voice. He saw her looking over the shoulder of a blonde haired photographer. He pushed through, coming face to face with Kitty Riley, the reporter who had fallen for Moriarty's lies.

He shouldn't be mad at her. Objectively, he _couldn't_ be mad at her. Yet he was. He hated that everyone had believed her, hated that the plausible truth was accepted over the exact truth. Because it was easy to believe the worst and hard to believe the best. Late at night when he was being driven out of his mind, it was _him_, solely him against her and the whole world.

She had no business asking if he was in therapy, didn't want to know how she'd found out. She'd done well enough selling her own exclusive after The Big Reveal. She didn't need to be anywhere near him. Look at her just staring back at him, like she knew him, like she _understood_-

"Looking for an exclusive?" He asked over the din.

Kitty's eyes widened fractionally...giving her away. The leeching hunger of the press. He leaned in, breath against her ear...

"No comment_._"

Repellent was not the word.

John dashed across the road, cars squealing in protest as their breaks were slammed on. He managed to shake off two particularly stubborn reporters after two streets and an alley dash. Any other time, he would have considered talking to Detective Inspector Lestrade (even in his thoughts he was too annoyed to be on first name terms right now) about the harassment from the press, but he just couldn't bring herself to do it today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe...

John fell into an easy rhythm once his pursuers dropped back. Adjusting to life without Sherlock had seen him face a lot of desk work and little movement. It wasn't that he gained weight - quite the opposite in fact- but the inactivity wore him down physically and mentally.

It had been Ella's suggestion that he should go out running, to help him manage his depression and the panic attacks. He'd felt stupid for not taking the initiative himself. Now he had no desk work, and miles and miles of London paving stones and tarmac to conquer.

However, in the early days, travelling at speed hadn't stopped him being recognised. Right now he didn't want to add to what had been yet another horrendous wake-up call by thinking about the verbal and sometimes physical abuse he'd been subject to from strangers, in the fallout from Sherlock's death. It had even required a police officer to be posted outside 221-B at one point, due to the threats made by the misinformed public.

John could have bought a running machine, but it would have felt like a luxury. And people who failed their friends didn't deserve luxuries... Besides, if he wanted to stay home, he wanted it to be his choice, and not because he was afraid to go out. So he mitigated his risks by investing in some hoodies, joggers and a sturdy set of trainers.

Hood up and with the right tilt to his head, he was just another faceless soul on a dash around London. He was practically anonymous. It didn't even matter that-

_"...Bed?"_

John misplaced his footing, very nearly veering into a pillar box. Sherlock's voice had not lost it's effect over time, even when recollecting it. He didn't know if this was a good or bad thing. The ease at which his brain would throw out a quote or an image, completely scuppering his train of thought, was reaching disturbing levels.

What the hell was Sherlock playing at anyway? It wasn't like Sherlock had completely changed, because he was still as arrogant, as infuriating and as intellectually staggering as normal but he had a new..._consideration..._ for John. An extra regard that made John's skin flush, his palms damp and his heart twist- and that mouth - oh lord this was not right -

"There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

John yelled in surprise as Sherlock lent out of a cab window that was suddenly keeping level with him (appearing out of nowhere he might add). "Dammit, Sherlock!" He recovered his jogging form _again_, shooting a glance to the side at him. "How did you even know it was me? I've got my hood up."

"Honestly, you could be dressed head to toe in nothing but a potato sack, John, and I would _still _recognise you."

John rolled his eyes, attempting aloofness when really a teeny tiny tinge of pleasure at Sherlock's adamance sparked inside him. He set his face to an expression he hoped was something along the lines of: John-Is-A-Serious-Man-And-Not-A-Conflicted-Teenage -Boy. The cab stopped but John kept jogging. He was not going to drop everything, he had his own plans outside of being suckered in to whatever Sherlock wanted-

The rapid and clear footsteps of his flatmate came up fast from behind him, until they were both level. John tried to keep his breathing even, but his resolve was cracking, people were staring at what appeared to be an extremely unconventional jogging double-act. John looked like he should have a DVD player tucked under one arm, and Sherlock, with his billowing trench coat and blue scarf- well he just looked like... Like...

"What are you _doing_?" John puffed, willing his brain to stop conjuring up a list of adjectives that were wholly inappropriate on so many levels.

"I'm enjoying the fresh air, getting the cardiovascular system fired up, you know, _jogging_, like you."

"In your suit and designer shoes?"

"I wouldn't pay the exorbitant price they charge for high thread count and hand tailoring if they couldn't withstand me perspiring."

Now that caught him off guard. John laughed, a loud, and completely honest burst of noise. He had to rest for a second, he'd winded himself a little. Slowing to a stop, he rested his hands on his knees. Sherlock overshot him, spinning gracefully to a stop a couple of metres ahead. John continued to laugh, trying to snatch his breath back, dissolving into a giggle.

A lop-sided smile was aimed in Sherlock's direction as he righted himself, kneading his scarred shoulder with one hand absentmindedly. His cheeks were pink, forehead glistening slightly. John pulled his hood down, hair spiking up in odd places.

"You? Perspire? I've never seen you do anything that _unrefined_." John was teasing him, this was good. It came out easily. Just like before. "We- well- _you_ look ridiculous."

"Don't care."

He really didn't. Which would have been fine if John wasn't a paranoid wreck. "I care though. People are staring." The smile faded a bit, eyes peering around. He pushed his fingers through his hair, trying to matt it back down a bit.

"Let them. Come on, stop faffing, it looks good a little...wild." Sherlock stepped closer, gently pushing John's hand down. John squeaked out an awkward laugh at the touch, unable to look Sherlock directly in the eye for some reason. "John, have you...?" Sherlock had locked on to something, looking at him as he would look at a test slide under a microscope.

John had been out exercising for only twenty minutes or so, but surely he couldn't tell, not with his hot face and sweaty shimmer... Surely Sherlock couldn't read that he had been upset earlier?

John shook his head, a sad smile, a taut jaw..."Please. Don't."

Sherlock's mouth thinned for a moment, clearly wanting to say something, probably something that would be too close to the bone. Then his face relaxed, eyes raised, taking in a cursory sweep of what was going on in the street around them. No doubt deducing everything, and saving nothing.

"Come to dinner with me."

Just like that. Now, it wasn't even lunch time yet and Sherlock was_ asking him to dinner._ There was no way of misinterpreting that. John's mouth popped open in surprise. All he could suddenly hear in his head was _'I look like seven shades of shit and my dead best friend has just asked me out on a date.'_

He took a deep breath, pulling his hood back up, willing his voice not to waver this time. "...I'll... think about it." John nodded a goodbye and set off again, leaving Sherlock to watch him go.

It took all his willpower not to look back.


	7. Chapter 7

Omg. Incase you can't tell, this chapter was a bit of a beast! I had lots of specific dialogue to add in, so hopefully it isn't too jarring. Once again I really need to share my awe and surprise at the popularity if this. All the messages, reviews, follows, favs... I mean I'm ASTOUNDED. So glad I bothered to make an official leap into the fandom by submitting this now. THANK YOU ALL.

Notes: I totally had to take artistic license with the layout of Scotland Yard, google maps can only do so much! Also, find me on tumblr, for updates and Johnlock tags (thefarfire).

Edit: minor spellings, elaboration x

**Chapter 7**

He didn't know how he'd been convinced to come to the station to go through some case files with Sherlock, but here John was trying to make the most of it. He'd given in after three or four days of being badgered by the restless bundle of energy he shared a flat with, if only to put off the answer to That Question a bit longer.

Sherlock seemed to think it would be good to 'build his confidence up' again but John suspected he had an ulterior motive. Sherlock- dinner? As in, _dinner-date_? Christ, where could he even begin with how strange and yet how normal it seemed? He mentally kicked himself for being as mixed up as he'd felt as a teenager, remembering his shaking hands trying to unhook a bra for the first time. He wasn't fifteen anymore, and Sherlock wasn't the type that would submissively sit there and wait. _Shit shit shit-_

"So...just like old times, eh?"

John looked up from the pile of photos spread out in front of him on the meeting room table. Lestrade looked back at him with a fixed smile and eyes that were slightly too wide. They hadn't really spoken to each other since the vomiting debacle nearly two weeks ago. Well, Lestrade had tried texting him, ringing him a few times, even popped over for Sherlock twice since then and asked about him...

But John had never been able to bring himself to respond or stay to chat. Every time he'd seen the name Greg appear on his mobile, or had heard him come in to 221-B, it had just made his black moods worse. Every time he looked at Lestrade, he wanted to be the bigger man, but his thoughts always betrayed his intentions.

_You took me for drinks two weeks ago and said nothing._

_You made me go to that awful bar twice last month and said nothing._

_You dragged me out to the cinema when I didn't want to go and said nothing._

_You watched me beat myself up every time I dared to feel something close to enjoyment and SAID NOTHING._

_You stood by and hoped I'd get over it._

_You looked me right in the eye every fucking time and _lied_ to me_.

"Yeah." Eyebrows up, face set to neutral. He could do this, he could lie too. "Just like old times."

"Sherlock about?" Lestrade did that cursory look around the room that used to make John smile. The look that implied: John is here, Sherlock should be near too. Now he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"Probably. We did arrive together." John's tone was meant to be light, but it came out with acidity. He turned back to the photos as Lestrade sucked in a small breath, at a loss for what to say. _Awkward..._

John's eyes fell on a photo of a hand, poking out from under a pile of files. It was a close up of a woman who had been found murdered in her garage two weeks ago. It must have fallen out of the original pile he'd been looking at. A yellowish tinge could be seen around the index and middle finger cuticles of her right hand. Checking the notes it was simply described as 'nicotine stains.' He frowned, wasn't she left handed? The colour was a little off too...

"Listen John, I never really got a chance to explain before-" Lestrade watched as John gathered up the papers and photos in front of him, jamming them back into their original file.

"You don't need to. I understand." John rose to his feet, bringing the file with him. "Sally was the lead on this wasn't she? Any idea where I can find her?"

"She'll be upstairs, by my office, she's got a report due- listen," Lestrade caught John by the arm as he went to pass, but John instinctively pulled back from the touch. The Detective Inspector pretended he wasn't offended but started rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. "...Uhh... Well... Are things going to be okay? With you and me I mean... I know you must think the worst of me right now, but I am _truly_ sorry. Sherlock... He's a hard man to say no to. You know how he is!"

"Yes I know how he is thank you." John snapped in a rush, gripping the file tighter. God he was getting tired of people telling him what he already knew. Logically, it really wasn't Lestrade's fault. They both suffered from the same problem: loyalty. The difference was, John's loyalty had been unwavering all through the bad times, it had never bent to the doubts of others. He had been _steadfast_. He had defended Sherlock when no one else would. Lestrade had known him longer, but he hadn't known him best. Not like John did.

Yes, _okay_, he'd felt doubt about what remained for them now, but never for a single second had he questioned Sherlock's extraordinary abilities. Moriarty hadn't gotten to _him_. If only Lestrade had been united with John in this, it would have been easier to forgive. "Whatever, it's in the past now."

"So, we're okay? You accept my apology...?"

John looked at him pointedly. "I said: _it's in the past now_." The DI's face fell slightly, but he nodded understanding, turning away from him with a grave expression. John left him where he stood, and was out the door and into the lift before Lestrade could think about catching up to him.

He leant against the lift wall, rubbing a free hand at his temple to try and ease the pain of a stress headache that was building up. The confrontation had been expected, but was still just as unsettling as if it had been sprung on him. Why was he the one that had to give approval? Why was everyone suddenly so surprised that he wasn't just going to laugh it off and shake hands? It had been a trick, yes, but not a joke.

Was he meant to stand there and say 'no I'm too happy to be upset now' or 'it's all water under the bridge' or 'I'm so impressed I can't be mad'? It had taken losing his job at the clinic to really come to terms with the knowledge that, _no_, that wasn't Sherlock's tread on the stairs, _no_, that wasn't him texting his phone, _no_, that wasn't Sherlock in the cab that just passed... And now that he was back, John had to get used to it all over again, it wasn't just automatic. _Yes_, that was Sherlock playing the violin, _yes_, that was Sherlock brushing his teeth at two in the afternoon, _yes_, that was Sherlock kissing him on the mouth-

John needn't have worried about being caught looking flustered with his inappropriate thoughts, as when he emerged from the lift, it was soon the last thing on his mind. There was suddenly a lot of shouting going on, and he recognised both voices.

John felt his face redden further as he walked past the desks, people stopping and whispering as he neared Lestrade's office. Everyone could hear _word for word_ the blazing row that was going on inside between Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan and Sherlock. A row in which John was the main subject. He slipped into the room, hoping to calm things down but immediately wished he hadn't.

"If you want to try and take the moral high ground, I suggest you start building a _time machine_, so that you can go back and stop yourself from leaping into the beds of half of Scotland Yard-"

"Sherlock-!" They were both meant to be keeping a low profile considering all that had happened, and starting World War 3 right inside Scotland Yard was something worth objecting over, regardless of Sally's personal habits. But Sherlock was in full rant-mode and far from done.

"-Then and _only_ then would you have a chance at having your opinions taken seriously. As that is unlikely to happen -we all know you're not exactly top of the list in the sciences, or _any other subject_ for that matter - why don't you save the rest of us from worrying about the depleting oxygen levels on this planet and shut up with your _incessant_ white noise!" Sherlock finished with a dismissive flick of a hand, leaning back in Lestrade's chair like he owned it.

"You're actually putting _my_ personal love life in the same ballpark as what you did to John?!"

"It's called _faithfulness_ Sally, and no, I'm not surprised you're unfamiliar with it."

"Faithfulness? What a crock of shit. Trapping someone into hanging off your every word has nothing to do with faith. It's brainwashing. I can see right through you!" Sally slammed her hands down on the desk, staring him square in the face, trying to dominate the fight by yelling the loudest.

"Sally, I am not brainwashed-" John was cut off again.

"No one else could stand you, could they? Even with a false identity you still couldn't hide the fact that you are a _total freak_. You just had to come back and take advantage of him again. You'd say _anything_ to him so long as you could get your ego stroked!"

Sally turned to John, suddenly acknowledging his existence. Very good of her. "What is it, John? Blackmail? What kind of sick hold does he have on you? We can protect you-" John didn't know how to take that, a mixture of confusion and incredulity on his face.

"What the _bloody hell_ is all this noise-" Lestrade yelled as he threw open the door to his office, bumping John slightly. John guessed that he must have taken the stairs as Lestrade was quite red himself. He opened his mouth to explain, but the sound was totally lost in the feud that raged in front of them.

"Like you could protect your Detective Inspector," Sherlock countered, "hiring a contract killer as a desk clerk? As usual your performance is woefully _inadequate_."

Sally grimaced, but held firm. "John, I'm serious-" She touched John on the arm and this time it was Sherlock's turn to slam his hands on to the desk, jumping to his feet in outrage.

"_Lestrade!_" He gestured wildly at Sally, an action that said 'do something you fool before I do!' The detective inspector was at least tactful enough to get between Sally and John, his voice trying to cut through the din as Sherlock and Sally resumed their slagging match.

It got to the point where John actually closed his eyes and tried to calm his stressed breathing, mentally counting down from ten to try and mellow the thunder going through his body. He got to four before he exploded. It was a personal best at least.

"Sally can you not resist sticking your nose in for _one_ fucking day?!" Sally whirled on him, shocked that she was being singled out and sworn at. "It's got nothing to do with you!" All he could think of was how smug her face had been after the funeral. She acted well enough, but sometimes she could be a real piece of work.

"You were _loving it_ when you thought he was gone. You _revelled_ in it. If you think I should only be mad with him, then think again. Don't you _dare_ try to defend my honour now when you were dragging it through the mud not five seconds ago. You didn't care about my feelings then did you?"

"Alright, John, let's not-" Lestrade started.

"No, _let's!_ It looks like a few of you round here could do with a lesson in humility anyway. You know London actually has bigger problems than your personal vendetta against Sherlock, _Sally_, and yet here you are trying to provoke him into doing something wrong just so you don't have to be wrong yourself. Well _suck it up_, because he's not going to do anything like that. He's got me hasn't he? So just stay out of it and do your damn job!"

He shoved the file he'd been holding into Sally's hands, she was so busy staring at him open mouthed that she nearly dropped it.

"You can start with the brother-in-law in the Pallo case, the one that owns a florists. I'm pretty sure he has something to do with the girl's death. They aren't nicotine stains on her fingers, it's pollen. I can't imagine why you haven't got someone to test them already. Maybe 'someone' suggested it, and you 'accidentally' forgot to follow through? You could look into it now, you know, if you have any energy left after all that mouthing off."

Stunned silence seem to cover not just the office, but also the floor outside. Only the sound of a couple of unanswered phone calls ringing in the distance could be heard for a moment. John hated losing his temper like this, but at least this time he was sure it was justified.

Sally took a second to compose herself, then made a derisive snorting sound, pretending she wasn't as bothered as John could tell she was. She moved past him, opening the door, but not before turning back to add one final comment.

"You're making a mistake, John."

John looked over at Sherlock, who was pretending to be very interested in a framed certificate on the wall, hands behind his back. Perfect composure. Their differences had never felt so prominent as they did right then in that office. They made eye contact in the reflection in the glass. John felt a flutter in his stomach. It was now or never.

"...Let me know how you get on with that time machine." He replied.

Sally scowled and stomped away, roughly knocking a clerk off balance as she went. John gave the two men in front of him a withering glance, raising his hands up. He was done. "I said this was a bad idea. I'm going home."

John turned out of the office, head high, back military straight, and stalked through the floor of suddenly very busy Scotland Yard employees. He got into the lift, Sherlock following at a safe distance behind. But for once John wished someone else had got in as well, it was all too easy to lose his nerve when it was just the two of them.

The doors closed and he let out a long shaky breath that he hadn't realised he was holding. His head was pounding. The air was thinning, chest contracting. Sherlock stepped closer.

"There are cameras, Sherlock." He warned, voice strained. Sherlock backed off with an annoyed click of his tongue.

"...I wasn't going to _do_ anything."

"I'm _very_ close to losing it right now, okay, just please, don't push me."

"I'm not pushing you-"

"Yes, _you are_- you all are. 'John shouldn't do this, John shouldn't do that, John can't cope, John can't think for himself, John can't speak for himself' - you're _all_ just pushing me about- trying to shove me where you think I'll fit and acting like _I'm_ the idiot for not fitting properly!"

John bit his lip, his hands were shaking again. "I'm a grown man for Christ's sake!" He yelled as the lift doors opened on to the lobby. John stormed out, as quickly as possible, trying to avoid what felt like a thousand eyes on him but in reality was probably only a few pairs. Sherlock's gaze, however, was unmistakeable and was currently burning into the back of his head.

A large gust of wind blew through the door as he walked through, the rainy night air hitting him full in the face, but it wasn't enough to dampen the panicky feeling that was beginning to suffocate him.

John's mind was stuck on a loop as he moved passed the barriers of New Scotland Yard and turned out on to the street, desperate to be as far away from it as possible. The rain was hammering, but so was his heart. All he could see was Sally's gloating face, the notes through the door that made Mrs Hudson cry they were so vile, his best friend splashed across the Tv, '_tonight's headline: worlds only consulting detective commits suicide after arrest links him to several murders and terrorist actions throughout London_,' no no! It wasn't true- waking up all those nights screaming out - his friends laughing and joking and 'just move on, John!' _EXCLUSIVE - BAKER STREET FRAUD_ - everyone staring, pointing, pitying- _stop!_ Wait, you've got it wrong- _please!_

John looked up, his mouth slack as headlights raced towards him out of the dark. Sherlock stepped in front to shield him, the sound of hot tyres squealing to a halt on wet asphalt ringing out over the sound of the heart beat in his ears.

The cab stopped three inches from Sherlock's knees, the driver inside immediately swearing and smacking his steering wheel. John was stuck where he stood until Sherlock grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket and pulled him out of the road on to the pavement. The cabbie proceeded to drive off, angrily honking his horn and giving them both the finger.

"John." Sherlock took hold of him and dragged him over to a recess in the building next to them, getting them out of the strongest part of the rain. "Are you back? Are you with me?"

John looked straight into his worried face, feeling cold all over, he'd nearly been hit by a car, Sherlock had stepped forward and shielded him-

"_John!_" Sherlock put his hands on John's rain-soaked shoulders, digging his fingers in with a little shake. The lights from a passing car lit up the face staring down at him with earnest concern, curls dripping rain, bright eyes flecked with gold... He was so...

"...Yes...I'm al-alright. I'm... _with you_. I always have been." He said, the hurt and embarrassment evident in his voice. John's face crumpled a little, making to pull away, to hide his face but the movement only served to push Sherlock's long fingers to the skin at his collar. It didn't go unnoticed.

John instinctively grasped the front of Sherlock's jacket with one hand, stuck between wanting to push him away or pull him closer. "I'm sorry." He wiped the rain off his face with his free hand, before gripping Sherlock's wrist. "_I'm sorry_. I can't get over it just like that. Everything is a trigger!" He exclaimed.

"Look at me." John shook his head once sharply. "John, I can fix this, just _trust_ me-"

"I _can't!_" John shoved him away, walking back out into the rain.

"You can't keep running from this!" Sherlock yelled pursuing him.

"_I'm not the one that ran!_" John yelled back, rain whirling off him as he stopped abruptly and rounded on him, jabbing him in the chest with two fingers.

Sherlock drew himself up, looking just as angry, bearing down on him. "But I was brave enough to come back at least! I was strong enough try and fix my mistakes. Where has your strength gone?" Sherlock's eyes were dark, daring him, stance deliberately threatening. It took all John's willpower not to give an inch.

"Where is the John Watson I believe in? The John Watson that stood his ground, that never gave up, that _never_ backed down?" John's blood was pumping hard again, as Sherlock's second rant of the evening was hurled at him. The adrenaline made his mouth dry and his fists clench.

"Are you really the same person who risked his life for me all those _countless_ times?" His voice lowered. "Because all I see right now is a _coward_ in front of me."

"I'm not a coward-!"

"Then prove it!"

"_Fine!_"

John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels on his trench coat and yanked him closer, forcing him to bend to John to avoid a clash of heads. Their mouths met, fuelled by the heat of the argument, and it pushed out any and all knee-jerk reactions to stop. No, not this time.

The raging whirlwind of flashbacks and haunted memories stuttered in John's mind, twisting, _dying_, before cutting out completely. A small moan escaped him as he sagged into the relief of it. All he could feel was the arms locking around him, the movement of Sherlock's mouth on his, the sheer overwhelming _need_ of him...

John broke the kiss, and they made eye-contact, still clasped together. He could tell by the glint in Sherlock's eye that he'd been well and truly played. But the outrage didn't overcome the glow that had lit up inside him. "You total git." He whispered, stepping away with surprising reluctance.

Sherlock let him go, watching John as he looked around with a guarded expression. "Regret it already? That has to be a world record-"

John scowled at him, adamant. "No. Just wary. I'd rather have my personal revelation unmarked by a beating from some homophobics out on a crawl round London, thanks." He wiped a thumb across the corner of his mouth, tongue running over his bottom lip. Rain and Best Friend lingered there. Sherlock watched the movement with fascination, John blushed...

"'Revelation?'"

"_Shut. Up_."

They began walking, both already soaked to the bone and past caring. Sherlock managing to shepherd him along the pavement until John felt steadier on his feet. After the third time he caught Sherlock looking at him- or was he looking at Sherlock?- John broke into a smile at the absurdity of it, which then led to both of them giggling and finally resulted in them both getting into a cab laughing to the point of tears.

And it felt..._amazing_.

"I knew you'd pick up on the pollen." Sherlock said abruptly, eyes delighted.

"Yes." John said, the laughter had died down, but he was still smiling as he looked out the window.

"'Yes' what?"

"...Yes, Sherlock, you can take me to dinner. I'm free on Friday."

Sherlock nodded with a smile that could only be described as 'deliberately self-satisfied' and aimed it directly at John. It was terrifying and exciting all at once. That was what Sherlock was, a total force of nature that you could fight against or join. Or in John's case, make-out with now apparently.

The voice of reason inside his mind was yelling:_ what the hell do you think you are playing at?! You don't even like men!_ The problem was, Sherlock could never be lumped in with ordinary men and women, he was quite simply something else. Or was John just trying to make excuses? They needed to have The Talk.

_Shit._

"Great. I know the perfect place."


	8. Chapter 8

omg, I'm so sorry, ugh, this chapter is the longest one yet. I have no consistency for it! I just write out set scenes, so the length varies wildly!

Side note: just incase it's different round the world : milk, green lid=semi-skimmed, red lid=skimmed, and blue lid=full fat ;)

Anyhoo, I truly congratulate you all in making it this far with me, I'm so grateful and amazed at all the support you've given me. Thank you also for the Tumblr support (big wave to the tumblers out there!)...Please keep sending in the reviews, PMS and good wishes, it really motivates me xx

**Chapter 8**

_"All the things that you wish you could have said... all the things that you haven't been able to say here in these sessions, have you been able to tell him? I assumed the delay in getting here was because you had a lot to go through with him."_

_"Well, he knows I was... upset. That I still am... We argued a few times, like I said. But it's sorted now. I think. Pretty much."_

_"You know I don't just mean the angry stuff, John. What he did _traumatised_ you."_

_"..."_

_"You spoke to him at his _grave_, John-"_

_"Actually, I spoke to a pile of bricks in a box under a large pile of dirt-"_

_"You shared an intense and often surreal time together, which to all intents and purposes ended very violently. I'm not here to tell you how to live your life, but if you're honestly choosing this path, to try and get back some semblance of what you had before, then I would say a _crucial step_ to your recovery is to be honest with Sherlock. How many people are out there right now, still in mourning, wishing they had just one more chance? Just one more day? You _need_ to tell him."_

_"...Tell him what?"_

_"That you love him."_

John hadn't said a word about the new ...'encounters' ... between him and his flatmate, so when Ella had just thrown out The Four Letter Word it had completely caught him off guard. And now here he was, half an hour later and still in a daze as he stared at the selection of milk in front of him. _Green, red, blue?_

Of course, when his therapist had actually elaborated, she had gone on and on about all the different forms of love. Romantic love, familial love, platonic love..._ Green, red, blue?_

How, just because he was a man and had been in the military, it didn't mean he wasn't allowed to express his feelings to his friends. _Green? Red? Blue?_

About how he was allowed to give himself permission this one time to get it out his system so that they could try and move on. As friends.

_GREEN. _

_RED. _

_BLUE._

_"If Sherlock is even half the best friend you believe he is, then he won't judge you."_

John picked up a pint of each, dropping them into the basket along with two bottles of bleach, a pot of morello cherry jam, a packet of marigold gloves and a can of boot polish. He was still trying to shake off the strangely numb sensation that had fallen over him since his session. It felt like he was wading through custard as he moved through the store, trying to remember what he was there for.

"Is that...?"

"Oh. My. God. It totally is."

The muscles in John's back tightened mid way as he reached for something on the shelf. Someone was talking about him. Make that two someones. He surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder as he followed through picking up the can of -what the hell _was_ that?- ratatouille, spotting two women further down the aisle looking directly at him.

It was the barefaced cheek of it, the way they openly stared at him, that bugged him the most. Whispering behind his back, fine he could take that, but not even trying to hide it at all? There was rude, and then there was _rude_.

He was just an ordinary man, a retired soldier, a doctor for Gods sake. Where had the recognition been when he'd taken lives in the name of freedom? Where had the recognition been when he was saving them? John flinched inwardly at that shameful thought, he wasn't the type to seek praise really, it just irked him that others now saw him as some kind of open commodity. He'd seen quite enough of the ugly side of London thank you very much, he didn't need more of it crowding him.

One of the women pulled out her camera phone and John cursed under his breath, turning fast on his heel down the aisle. The two of them followed, actually picking up their pace to chase him round a corner.

It didn't give him any pleasure to have to hide behind a tower of kitchen roll, but for once he was grateful for the few missing inches in height that life had short changed him with. John waited for them to pass then dumped the shopping and headed out the back exit before anyone else got any bright ideas.

"All settled?"

John practically jumped out of his skin as a lean figure emerged from an adjoining alley. He forced a smile.

"Will!" John half jogged over to greet him, shaking the young mans hand. "Hey, are you actually wearing a _suit_?" He gestured for Will to walk with him, both heading away from the supermarket.

Will smiled, cheeks a little flush, running a hand through his hair which was now trimmed short. John couldn't help but think it was a vast improvement. "Yeah, yeah, I just got out of a placement interview with one of the managers at the hostel."

Now John's interest was actually engaged, the supermarket dash seemed like a distant aggravation. He should just stick to getting their stuff delivered from online. _Their stuff_. John swallowed, trying to focus on Will. "Wow, that sounds great, how did it go? Do you know yet?"

"Yeah, they offered me the job straight away. It's only an admin job but I get a bed out of it too."

"Ah well y'know that is fantastic, Will, it really is! I knew you had it in you, you're really such a smart kid-"

Will looked at him pointedly, he was a good three inches taller so it was very easy to see the sudden change in his demeanour. "I'm not a kid, John."

John laughed gently, to cover the awkwardness, but he could sense that something else was up. And since when did Will call him by his first name? Not that he was complaining, but Will had always called him 'Doc.'

As if right on cue, Will piped up. "So, has _he_ managed to fuck up again yet? Or are you back playing happy families?"

John stopped short, frowning. "Wow...you couldn't really get more personal than that right now." He tried not to show he was upset by this. "Why would you even say that to me?"

"Because someone needs to point these things out to you."

"What _things_?"

"Things like: you can do better, or you should be with someone that isn't going to mentally _torture_ you. Someone who won't mess you about like he does-"

"Just leave it, Will." John started walking again, he didn't want to hear this right now, but Will was persistent and kept on at him.

"What he did was _disgusting_."

"He did it to save _my life_-"

"He did it to show off."

"It had to look _real_-"

"_Sherlock is a monster_!"

John cracked, stopping dead. "You don't know the first thing about him! And incase you hadn't noticed, I didn't ask for your opinion or your advice! Do you understand me?" The words rebounded off the buildings. Had he really just spouted to Will all the arguments Sherlock had tried to win him round with? His stomach twisted.

Will's eyes were wide, and angry, but that didn't stop him from raising a hand to John's face, touching his cheek. "_Please, John_-"

John recoiled at the touch, batting his hand away like he was some kind of poisonous animal. His mouth dropped open in surprise. He knew what that 'please' meant... It was just one little harmless word on its own, but with the right tone and a bit of body language the truth was clear.

It meant: don't go back to him.

It meant: you're making a mistake.

It meant: _why can't you choose me?_

All he could think of was how Sherlock had probably known all along and hadn't said anything.

"No...No, Will... _Never_." He backed up further, hands clenching. "Not with you." He whispered, hardly believing he could acknowledge it at all.

Will looked like he'd been slapped, shocked and dazed all at once. But what had he honestly expected? He wasn't exactly the sugar-daddy type, and despite recent events he still couldn't say he was interested in men, or boys, for that matter! But John couldn't talk to him anymore. He was _done_. John left him there, briskly walking out on to the main street, flagging down a cab almost straight away. He didn't look back.

This situation wasn't quite as easily ignored as being chased in the supermarket. Oh no, the Will Problem was a whole other kettle of fish. He spent the entire journey back to 221b agonising about it. Had he encouraged him? Had he been too nice? Had Sherlock's presence somehow activated a 'John's open for experimentation' beacon to all and sundry?

He was still fretting about it when he finally got back home, taking the stairs two at a time.

"Sherlock?! I need a -" He spotted Mycroft's umbrella before he noticed the long legs to the side of them. "...Word."

"How about this one: _careless_."

Mycroft was sitting in John's armchair, which automatically pissed him off - everyone knew you didn't sit in a man's personal chair without their permission, hadn't Mr Government been informed too? John decided that he was going to enjoy dragging him off it, but Mycroft seemed to catch on to his intent. He rolled his eyes dramatically and offered up manila envelope to him.

"What did I say about-!"

"Not that I'm admitting to anything, but for what it's worth, these came to my door. Or rather, I _intercepted_ them. Makes for interesting viewing. Strange, because I either misread you completely or underestimated my brother considerably more than usual."

John scowled, snatching up the envelope, pulling out the contents. Six glossy, low-range, A4 photos. Of him and Sherlock. In the rain.

He felt a cold wave spread over him, like he'd been dunked in ice water.  
"Oh..." The shots had been taken from across the road they'd been on, probably from a side street, and showed John in the forefront with Sherlock further back but clearly in shot.

"Indeed." Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "You do realise what would have happened if these were released?"

"...Enlighten me."

"Well, John...we've had quite enough _scandal_ for one year surely?"

But John was finding it hard to concentrate on the man in his armchair. He kept flicking through the photos, knowing what had happened was real, but feeling remarkably affected for seeing it in some dingy night time photos.

Is that what he looked like when he was upset? When had he got that _thin_? He almost didn't recognise himself. John's eyes drifted to Sherlock in each frame. There he was yelling, challenging him with those wild eyes...He couldn't help but notice the way his hair looked good even when soaking wet, in high contrast with John's soggy Yorkshire Terrier appearance.

A slowly blooming warmth fluttered across John's stomach, not caring for one second that Mycroft was staring at him..._Oh..._

What stood out most vividly to John was not the kiss itself, but the next shot in the set. He had his face turned away, almost fully towards the camera, but Sherlock was looking directly at him.

John stepped towards the light of the window, to try and get a better look at the photo. It was just after they'd pulled away from each other, but their arms were still touching. It wasn't clear at first, as the pictures weren't taken under the best of conditions, but what he did see confused him. John thought back, but he didn't remember it like that at all...

Sherlock looked _pained_.

And John had missed it in the second he'd turned away to see if anyone was watching.

"W-what?" John stammered, coming back to reality. He threw the photos on to the living room table.

"I said, it's been a trying time for everyone, but there are better ways to get it out of your system."

"'Trying'?" John gave a short, derisive laugh. "That's the best you could come up with? And what do you mean 'get it out of your system'?"

"You know how my brother is, John, he's not exactly First Class-" he said the next word in a strained voice, "-_boyfriend_ material. The arrangement would be detrimental to both of you."

John looked up at the ceiling briefly, every inch of him screaming 'God give me strength to deal with this asshole.' "This is _actually_ happening..." He muttered under his breath, trying very hard to hold it together.

"And it's very serious. When I said 'don't let Moriarty win' I didn't mean..." He searched for the right words, but just ended up jabbing a pointed finger in the direction of the photos. "Well I didn't mean _that_! My dear younger brother is not made for that type of behaviour, it's a debilitating distraction."

Sherlock's voice roused in John's memory..._"I am _infinitely_ better with you..."_ He took a deep breath.

Mycroft continued. "Yes, I was dubious about your friendship at first, but I was forced to admit you had a positive effect on him. However-" he banged his fist on the arm rest for effect "this is _toxic_ and it will only end in more tears."

John stared at him, mouth agape, what did _he_ know of tears? He knew _nothing_. He was just so bloody self-righteous, so bloody _unaffected_! John could have rightly said it was Sherlock's fault, after all _he_ had pursued John in all this despite what the photos suggested, but that wasn't in his nature. He was actually more affronted that Mycroft was implying that he wasn't good enough for Sherlock.

"This 'distraction' has saved your brother's backside more times than I can count, because he _actually matters_ to me, and you dare to sit there in judgement when you've been hell bent all along on using him to suit your own ends. Now I warned you-"

"You must finish it!" Mycroft yelled, getting to his feet.

"_I will not_!" John screamed back, squaring up to him. "The problem with you Mycroft, is that I'm the one you constantly underestimate - not Sherlock. First of all, you're under the misguided notion that I give a damn about what you think and what you want."

John's voice cooled, discipline kicking in, eyes hard. "And secondly, you can't force me to do anything I don't want to because you have _no leverage_. What can you possibly threaten me with? What can you even think of holding over me? My family, my _job_?" He laughed again at the absurdity of it. "Are you going to 'make my life miserable' Mycroft? Because I've managed that quite fine on my own thanks."

Mycroft's resolve slipped a little, revealing an extremely uncomfortable expression for a moment. That just highlighted the real difference between him and his brother - Sherlock never revealed things so easily.

"He is the only one that..."_ I care about - I need- I would die for- I have killed for-_ "I am willing to listen to right now. So whilst it might not agree with you, don't think that just because you destroyed your obligations to Sherlock as his brother, that I will be so easily persuaded to do the same thing as his friend. He is back, he wants me to stay and if there's...more-" _Don't blush, don't you dare blush!_ "...then that's between us."

John stepped away, motioning to the door. "Now, do you need any help getting _the fuck out_ of our home?"

Mycroft tilted his head to the side, a slight sneer as he spoke. "I think I can manage, _thank you_." He picked up his umbrella in one graceful sweep of his hand before throwing John a tight smile, heading out of the living room and down the stairs.

It was a smile that said: _this isn't over_.

He heard the front door slam shut, and was finally alone. John ran his hands through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck. Well today was clearly a complete write-off and it was barely dinner time. His stomach grumbled unhappily but he couldn't face the thought of eating now, what he really needed was a nice cup of tea to take the edge off.

"Unbelievable." He muttered, going into the kitchen to fill up the kettle. He yanked it off the stand and took it to the sink, turning on the tap. "Totally un-believ-able."

But barely two seconds into it, he dropped the whole thing into the sink with a clang, leaning against the counter with a stifled groan as he covered his face with his hands, head bent forwards.

John let out a deep breath, counting down from ten in his mind. _Ten, nine, eight..._His hands weren't shaking, no, no they really weren't, honestly. _Seven, six.._.The noise of the running water wasn't covering the sound of his ragged breathing, no, not at all. _Five, four.._.Because everything was fine, because he'd faced worse, surely? _Three_...This was nothing, this was a drop in the ocean. _Two.._.This was no big deal.

_One._

_"...You love him."_

He switched off the water roughly, trying to ignore the feelings bouncing around inside of him with a fixed grimace on his face. Feelings that had no bloody right being there in the first place.

Picking up the kettle, he tried to reattach the lid that had popped off, but his hands just wouldn't cooperate. After a few more seconds of frustrated muttering and jabbing at the lid- really, what kind of assistant surgeon couldn't fix a stupid kettle lid?!- he was very close to repeating the assault he'd given to his lamp shade earlier in the week.

But thats when he heard the distinct click of something being placed on the table behind him.

John whirled, kettle and lid dropping out of his hands and clattering into the sink again. Sherlock carefully placed the rest of the Petri dishes on the table, one by one, before looking up at John. It took a few seconds for him to realise that Sherlock had been in the bathroom the whole time Mycroft had been there, oh god, he'd heard? He couldn't have avoided hearing.

In some masochistic move to have the truth acknowledged John gestured half heartedly to the living room. "You...?" Sherlock merely nodded, an expression on his face that John couldn't pin point. It was unnerving how quickly the mood in the room switched; from the high stress of an encounter with Sherlock's obnoxious brother, to the absolute terror of exposure from being overheard.

Why did it even matter to him? Sherlock was the one that had started all this. He shouldn't care if Sherlock knew how he felt...But he was still mixed up about everything. He wanted to be firm, to be angry, to not have the depth of his commitment laughed at or over-analysed. Sherlock didn't go for...sentiment.

John went to speak but he didn't know where to start. He couldn't look at him, he couldn't look at the man he'd met by chance, the man that infuriated and dazzled him all at once, who had embedded himself so deep into John's life it was impossible to imagine a time without him.

He wanted to yell at Sherlock, _stop staring at me, I can't think!_ But perversely, he couldn't bring himself to say even that. Because having Sherlock look at you was like seeing daylight for the first time- it _stung_ and warmed in equal measure - and once you felt it you never wanted to go back to the dark.

John tried to look neutral, unaffected, but it was impossible, Sherlock was looking right into him and it was _unbearable_-

"Sod this-" John moved over to the kitchen door that led to the hall, practically diving for the handle, just about opening it. But Sherlock was just as quick, pushing the door closed with one hand and crowding John back into the corner up against the wall with the other. "_Uh_-!"

John had always responded well to orders, his ability to follow established directions had made up a significant part of his success in the Northumberland Fusiliers before he was wounded. So it really shouldn't have been a surprise that he moved, nervously, but naturally at Sherlock's unspoken commands. It really shouldn't have surprised him, but it did.

Sherlock tapped the inside of one of John's feet with his own, and John widened his stance at this encouragement. He stared resolutely at the the taller man's shoulder, swallowing as the new space allowed Sherlock to draw in closer to him, hands placed on either side of John's hips.

Sherlock's hands very slowly inched up underneath the edge of his jumper, and John sucked in a sharp breath as he felt cool skin press gently on his. John dared to glance up at his face but immediately wasn't sure if it had been a wise move.

That _intensity_, the sheer energy of focus... He couldn't maintain that gaze, burning under the heat of it. He might as well have been an ant under Sherlock's magnifying glass. He wished he hadn't worn a jumper after all, Jesus it was _hot_- who took the oxygen out of the room? This was cruel, this was _torture_, he wasn't anybody, he was _no one_- why him?

_Just kiss me, if you're going to kiss me!_ He screamed internally, brow furrowed, the colour in his cheeks betraying him.

Sherlock moved his hands up one inch, a few fingers added to flesh, and John shivered at the touch. A visible reaction of a man caught between fear and desire. John was trying really hard to concentrate on not letting the rest of his body make a complete idiot of him.

He could see Sherlock smiling, just ever so slightly, head tilted down to him, but it was enough for John to give him a thoroughly annoyed look. The smile got wider, genuine, it was the smile only John got to see. John faltered at the sight... it had _hurt so much _when he had thought he would never see it again.

Without John's express permission, his own hands reached to touch him, finding a place on Sherlock's forearms, just below the rolled up silk sleeves. How could either of them stand for this? Sherlock was not what you would call affectionate and John's body language was advertising quite the opposite despite his efforts. Doubt creeped into his mind...

All at once, Sherlock's face turned very serious, as he moved his head to whisper in John's ear, making him freeze like a statue.

"I was..._so alone_... and I owe you _so much_."

John's eyes widened as Sherlock pulled away abruptly, light and air flooding back into the room in his wake. His empty hands falling limp to his side as Sherlock turned his regard back to the Petri dishes, picking up a pen to write some notes with.

"You can't just-" He wanted to say that it wasn't fair to quote _that_ back to him, the very thing he'd said at Sherlock's grave, because it was callous, it was viscous, it was uncalled for- but then Sherlock glanced back at him through long lashes and John could tell, he just knew straight away...Sherlock _meant_ it.

He'd also obviously been aware of Lestrade pulling up outside, as John heard the door slam and footsteps bound up the stairs.

"Mind my floors!"

"Sorry Mrs Hudson- in a bit of a rush."

John straightened himself up from slouching in the corner, blinking away the heat at his eyes, seeing Lestrade's outline through the textured glass as he rushed across the landing into the living room.

"Not interested." Sherlock stated flatly.

"Oh there you are Sherlock," Lestrade said, a little surprised quirk of his eyebrows as John appeared from behind the wall, crossing over and going back to fix the kettle. "What do you mean 'not interested'? You haven't even seen what I've brought."

John leant up against the counter as he attempted to pop the kettle lid back into its hinges, glancing over at his flatmate. Sherlock meanwhile, had opened up a Petri dish with a purple growth inside it. He sat down at the microscope and put a sample of the purple stuff on a slide to examine. Lestrade pulled out his mobile and flicked to something before holding it out to him.

After a few seconds of Sherlock doing the '_I'm actually very busy_' not-busy-at-all routine, he feigned annoyance at being pulled away from the slide and snatched the phone out of Lestrade's hand, pausing for a moment at what he saw.

"This is from Moran." Sherlock said, face blank. John tensed at the name of Moriarty's second in command, and, deciding that this was a conversation he wanted no part of, he went to walk out of the kitchen when what Sherlock said next stopped him.

"Like I said. Not interested."

Lestrade scoffed, catching the phone as Sherlock threw it up in the air. "It's clearly meant for you Sherlock, it's a code, he dug it into the wall for Christ's sake, how could you not be interested?"

"Like this." Sherlock stared into the microscope, refusing to talk eye to eye. "It's not a code, he's just winding you up. Playing with you Lestrade."

The DI looked a little put-out at first, but seemed to decide it was probably a relief, some of the worry dropping out if his shoulders. He was going to add something else, but turned to John instead.

"Oh, John. You'll be pleased to hear that Sally got the test results back, you were right, it was pollen." John could see Sherlock's mouth quirk upwards. "Caught the brother-in-law at Gatwick this morning, was heading off to Mexico. Screaming admission if ever I saw one. He's in custody now. Wondered if you two might-"

"Couldn't possibly." Sherlock cut in, taking his slide over to the bin and casually tossing it away.

"Err Sherlock did you just put a biohazard in our bin?"

"If you're referring to last nights curry bonanza, which you failed to finish, then yes, I did earlier, what is on that slide is significantly less lethal." Sherlock clapped his hands once, rubbing them together. "Time for a change, Lestrade! John and I are leaving London for a while."

"'Less lethal?' Wait, _what?_ We are?"

"Yeah, where are you going? You've only just got back-"

"What day is it today?" Sherlock asked to no one in particular, looking at his watch.

"Thursday." Lestrade replied, throwing a confused look at John who could only shrug his shoulders in return.

"Better get cracking, John, Friday tomorrow," Sherlock gave him a firm slap to the arm, with a fleeting squeeze at the end, giving him a wink as he bounded into the living room.

_Friday._

"Oh, Friday!" John exclaimed, penny finally dropping._ Date night._

Lestrade frowned suspiciously, "what's so special about Friday?"

"_Nothing_-!"

"_Everything_-!"

John turned so that Lestrade was behind him, shielding him from seeing the _wouldyoushutthefuckupSherlock_ glare that he was aiming at the lithe man currently scaling the bookcase.

Sherlock threw some books down, and John rushed over catching them in mid air. Just then, out of the corner of his eye, the photos glared up at him from the living room table. John's mind screamed out a few more expletives - had Lestrade noticed them?!

John nearly collided straight into Sherlock as he jumped down at the exact moment John bounded towards the table, dumping the books on top of the photos. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, moving past him and John pretended he hadn't felt a hand brush against his leg. He was feeling a little bit more than flustered, biting back the urge to reprimand the curly haired pain-in-the-arse.

"You alright John? Seem a bit on edge...?" Lestrade offered meekly, looking back and forth between the two of them. John didn't turn around, just shook his head with a stretched laugh.

"Just been one Hell of a day."

"Well, it's not over yet John, chop chop! We have to get to the station in less than an hour and you haven't even packed yet." Sherlock said over his shoulder, dashing off to his bedroom.

"So you're not telling me where you are going?" Lestrade called, Sherlock poked his head back into the doorway briefly.

"Nope."

"Well, when will you be back?"

"Couldn't possibly hazard a guess." Sherlock called back, the sound of drawers opening and closing rapidly.

John half smiled at Lestrade, it was getting easier to be around him now at least. "Just like old times..." He said gently, and this time, some of the light returned back to the DI's face at the reference. Things were so different...and yet... totally the same. He just had to hold on, he just had to wait this rough bit out...

It _was_ possible. He could do it.

"John! Where's my coil of high tensile rope?!"


	9. Chapter 9

Hello all! What can I say except, well-bloody-done for making it this far! I'm still over the moon by how supportive and complimentary you have all been, I promise to never take you all for granted. The favs, PMs, reviews and yes even fanart/fangraphics have had me blushing furiously, and really push me to try and improve myself. But the pressure is on! I hope you all continue to enjoy this journey I'm dragging you on (I guess in this instance that makes me the Sherlock to your John ;3 )!

Disclaimer: Loch Laggan is a real place (google maps yo), but any people/buildings etc i describe are purely from my imagination and do not represent any real equivalent out there in the world.

Xx

**Chapter 9**

After Lestrade left, they never actually made it to the station, much to the outraged and impatient Sherlock Holmes. He'd made such a fuss over the packing that they'd spent nearly another hour arguing about why John had about a thousand jumpers but not even one single water proof.

_"I'm British, Sherlock, I was taught at birth to suffer the indignities of rain and drizzle without wasting twenty quid on a plastic sheet with a hole in the middle-"_

There was a lot of bickering backwards and forwards, John wanting to dig his heels in and Sherlock wanting to drag him along on a trip he refused to give him details about.

_"It's a surprise."_

_"I don't like surprises."_

_"Yes you do, I distinctly remember you going all gooey when Molly pretended she hadn't got you anything for your birthday when she _had_-"_

_"Fine, I'll rephrase it. I don't like _your_ surprises. And I did not go all 'gooey'-"_

Then the arguments escalated into; why didn't John want to go out shopping for some waterproofs, and didn't he actually go shopping earlier to get the boot polish Sherlock needed since he'd used all of Johns' up in an experiment? It had all resulted in John remembering what had happened that day, his thoughts spiralling out of control, as if his mind was being squeezed from all directions. His therapy session, being chased, being followed around, the comments, the yelling, Will making a bloody pass at him, Mycroft and his fucking photographs-

_"I'm sorry, John, can you hear me? John, I'm sorry, we can go tomorrow_-"

At least he'd been sat down when the panic attack gripped him that time. But John had hardly got a wink of sleep that night, and thought about it relentlessly the next day. It was Friday, mid afternoon, and John had dutifully followed Sherlock out of London and all the way to Glasgow on the train. Over six hours in and their journey still continued. And John still worried.

"Why didn't we just fly?" He asked as they headed out into the car park to pick up their rental. He huffed his large back pack further up on to his shoulders to stop it slipping. Sherlock meanwhile, had two holdalls, one tucked under his arm, the other hanging at his opposite side- and not a perfect curl out of place. John narrowed his eyes, why did Sherlock look so..._effortless_ all the time?

"Your nerves are shot enough as it is, I didnt think you needed me to give you a running commentary on who was most likely to cause trouble in a flying tin can with no exits-"

"Yeah okay, _or_, you could have kept your observations to yourself and we could have been in Glasgow hours ago."

Sherlock gave him a confused frown, and John interpreted this as him genuinely not being able to see that it was actually possible for him to keep quiet about some things. "But then you would have missed out on the male ticket conductor who was clearly wearing women's underwear-"

"Yes that would have been a shame-" he replied sarcastically. Sherlock led him to a gunmetal grey Land Rover Defender and unlocked the back, shoving his bags in, moving aside to let John unload his.

"And the woman who was so excited to tell her husband she was pregnant that she kept dropping her phone- the battery came out _three times_ for gods sake- come on, John, you love all that stuff-"

"What about the woman in the green blouse who came into the carriage, saw us and then turned and walked straight back out? Or the man in first class who was not so subtly googling us on his laptop? Or the teenager reading a left over copy of The Telegraph with your face on page 12-"

"You know I don't care what page I'm on-"

"It's not about the page number, Sherlock. It really isn't."

"Yes. _I do know_. I'm trying to get you to... 'lighten up.' You can't keep worrying about what other people think." John gave him his most withering look, but Sherlock ignored him, closing up the Defender and heading around to the drivers side. John rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, trying to release the knot of tension there, looking up at the grey sky with resignation. "Besides, you take your gun everywhere with you. So we wouldn't have gotten very far through the airport now would we?" He called over his shoulder.

"Oh just scream that at the top of your lungs why don't you?" Annoyed that he was right, he had brought his gun with him. But why had he let Sherlock drag him out of the apartment in the first place? He could have easily gone back on the whole 'yes take me to dinner' thing. He really could have.

_Should have just stayed in bed_, he thought wearily, slipping into the passenger side. By this time Sherlock had finished adjusting the seat and mirrors to his liking, so it was purely by chance that John went to plug in his seatbelt at exactly the same time as him...

John looked up straight into Sherlocks bright eyes barely three inches from him, sea green and flecked with gold, seeing his pupils dilating as they gazed back at him. Now there was a man confident and arrogant enough to look him straight in the face, knowing that even with his average observational skills John would pick up on that simple message. The _he-likes-what-he-sees_ message. John swallowed nervously. Sherlock couldn't fake that. You couldn't force that. But these things didn't just happen overnight, so had it always been this way? Unspoken and right in front of his face? He just didn't know. He couldn't think straight.

John's mouth opened slightly, remembering how Sherlock had pressed him up against the wall in the kitchen... It sent a shiver down his spine. But he turned away, coming back to his senses, propping his elbow up at the window. He tried to remain as nonchalant as possible, he tried not to care that Sherlock could read him like a book... Tried, and failed.

John watched the the traffic go past as they set off on what Sherlock promised would be the last leg of their journey. But the trouble with all the interrupted sleep he'd been having was that tiredness hit him randomly and swallowed him up when he least expected it.

A few minutes turned into a couple of hours and suddenly John was opening his eyes to a view that took his breath away. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sleep from his head, sitting up straight. Rich green hills rolled up around them as they drove, thick dense forests hugging in crevices and dips. Stretching out far off to the side of the road was a long lake cutting through the land like a shimmering mirror, stretching off into the distance. Even with the blue-grey sky above, the water broke and scattered the sunlight like flare bursts along the waves.

"Where are we?" He asked, voice husky from the surprise power-nap.

"Loch Laggan, a reservoir just east of Fort William and home to the UKs largest freshwater beach. We're slightly out of season, so it should be quiet." Sherlock threw him a small smile, turning his eyes back to the road. "Surprise."

John didn't know what to say. It shamed him to admit it, but he couldn't accept that Sherlock had taken him on a trip to Scotland in a purely selfless act, no matter how beautiful the scenery was.

"Why here?"

Was it John's imagination or did Sherlock's eyes dart to the side for a split second? He felt the pull of suspicion tug at him, but was distracted by a splash of red appearing at the side of the road. His heart lurched, imagining something else for a moment, but quickly realised it was only a woman emerging from the woods.

Sherlock pulled over on to the gravel track and John could see more clearly that the red splash was infact just a shawl, a wicker basket hooked on one arm. He looked at Sherlock questioningly but he was already faced the other way, almost hanging out of the window.

The dark haired, pale skinned woman broke into a broad grin, waving as she ran up to greet them. "There you are, Sherlock! I thought you were coming up this morning?"

"We were regretfully delayed." He replied, allowing the woman to not only hold on to his arm in greeting, but also place a kiss on his cheek. John felt a slight twist in his stomach for some reason, noticing quite quickly that she was actually more remarkable looking close up than she had been from afar. Despite the light skin, there was something distinctly Mediterranean about her, Italian maybe?

John was always a sucker for large brown eyes...but he groaned inwardly when the little voice inside him whispered, _but Sherlocks are better_. Trying to ignore that he was having some kind of weird bisexual jealousy moment, he forced a smile, looking to Sherlock for an introduction.

"John Watson, Teresa Logan, Teresa Logan, John Watson." Sherlock didn't pronounce her name in the typical English lilt, instead elongating the middle. Teh-_ray_-zah. She reached across him, extending a hand for John to shake. Left handed. Married. _Thank Christ_. Although John wasn't really sure what he was thankful for.

"Ah, so _this_ is the good doctor you spoke about?" She said with a mischievous crinkle at her eyes. Her hand was small and warm against his, but he still pulled away first. Sherlock rolled his eyes when she wasn't looking, but John saw.

"Pleased to m-"

"Is the cottage ready?" Sherlock asked Teresa, cutting over the top of him. She flicked her long curly hair out of her eyes, breeze buffeting against her.

"Yes, I hid the key though."

"It's behind the water barrel." Sherlock said, nothing but confident. She threw her hands up, nearly losing half of her basket of late blooming flowers.

"Lucky guess!" Teresa knocked on the car door with her free hand, turning away. "Dinner is at five."

Sherlock nodded to her, putting the car into gear and driving them back out on to the road. Sherlock didn't elaborate on who the woman was, and quite frankly he didn't want to know right now. John couldn't shake off the black mood which had no right to be there, so he concentrated on looking out of the window. "I guess the Scots don't consult amateurs either." He mumbled under his breath.

"What?"

"I said maybe we should have offered her a lift?" He lied, but Sherlock didn't respond, just frowning at the road ahead. They travelled in silence, John's foot tapping nervously on the inside of the foot well, head propped up on his hand.

Friday.

Dinner at five.

_Date night._

He chewed on his bottom lip as they skirted around the lake. He didn't know how to feel, so ofcourse he felt a hundred things at once. Anxiety, confusion, suspicion, yes, okay, attraction too, but that was just Sherlock- even people that hated him were drawn to him. He honestly couldn't believe that in a matter of weeks things had changed so radically. Surreal.

John nearly bit through his lip when Sherlock grabbed his knee, making him jump. "Stop. Tapping. It's very distracting." He said, releasing him, following the road across the narrow neck of water at the end of the loch. "Please." He added, an afterthought.

They seemed to go up into the trees for a bit, before the view cleared, hinting at a sandy beach, which even in the grey light looked inviting. John wanted to talk, to break the tension, but he couldn't trust himself not to start an argument. What was Sherlock up to? Why this place? And should he have brought his suit?

John squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to measure his breathing, this was getting out of hand. It was completely the wrong time, it was completely inappropriate, it was _insane_ to be thinking about Sherlock this way. But no matter how much he tried to convince himself he wasn't interested, that he was just in a vulnerable place, he couldn't shake off that feeling... the _I-think-this-is-something-big_ feeling. Would they even be in this situation if Sherlock hadn't 'declared' his interest?

John's conflicted internal monologue was interrupted by Sherlock pulling the Defender up in front of a lone building not 20 metres from the waters edge. He watched Sherlock leap out of the car, gravel crunching underfoot as he shot off towards the white cottage, long coat flaring out behind him with the authoritative air of a General striding into battle. He felt a little warm at that image.

John scrambled out of the car, trekking after him, wishing he could spend more time looking at the view but compelled to clear the air first. "Sherlock."

He turned towards John, key retrieved and already in the door, face softening ever so slightly, but hardening again the second he seemed to pick up on John's mood. Sherlock tilted his head to the side a little, walking back to him.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"I don't understand."

"Uh, _yes you do_, what are you up to?"

Sherlock looked at him like he'd grown a second head, but John was wary... Sherlock was an astounding actor when he wanted to be, the man could literally cry on cue, laugh on cue, gasp on cue -

"It's date night."

John felt a flush rise to his cheeks, but didn't let it put him off. "You brought me on an 8 hour journey to the other side of the UK just to give me a hot dinner?"

"No, not _just_ a hot dinner..." Sherlock glanced to the side and John couldn't tell if he was winding him up or not. Now wasn't the time for double-talk. John glanced up at the cottage.

"How many bedrooms does that thing have?" He asked, pointing at it. Sherlock threw his hands up, trying to keep a straight face but clearly infuriated by the line of questioning.

"One! Would you stop being such a child about this? You know I don't use the damn things, you can have the bed, you need it more. And you don't need to keep looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm going to force you to do something you don't want to do!" Sherlock yelled, stepping closer.

"Because you know _so much_ about what _I_ want!" John yelled back, standing his ground, hands clenched at either side. For a split second, John thought he saw a flicker of hurt, maybe even guilt, pass over Sherlock's face- but it was gone so quickly he couldn't be sure.

He watched him take a deep breath, before Sherlock responded, his voice low and measured. "Maybe not. But I know what you _need_. There's a difference." He placed both hands on Johns shoulders, wind kicking up those damned curls, like he was in some kind of tv advert. This was ridiculous! "After all that has happened, I just thought you could benefit from being out of the city, away from prying eyes, away from the noise, all the stress of city life. This will do you good. I wanted to do this for you. I've known Teresa a long time, she'll help with all the arrangements-"

"That's nice of you..."

"I thought so."

"But you don't _do_ nice. Nice is boring. Nice is ordinary." Sherlock dropped his hands, but kept focused on John, expression unreadable. John waved a hand gesturing to the fantastic, almost dizzying, landscape around them. "This is not interesting enough for you. You'll be driving me up the wall within minutes of us unpacking. You can barely breathe without a case on the go, you'll be a nervous wreck in a matter of hours-"

Sherlock seemed to have a revelation, which annoyed John, cutting over the top of him _again_. "You don't have to start an argument every time I try to do something for you. There isn't an ulterior motive. There are plenty of things I can get on with here whilst you take some rest. You don't need to keep pushing me, John, I'm not going anywhere."

John laughed dryly, shaking his head. "Ah, well, that's where you're wrong though. You see if I push you, and you leave-"

"I'm _not_ leaving, John-"

"-then it's my choice whatever happens and I'll get over it... I will. But if I let you back in, and you just decide one day to up and disappear, or come up with another insane idea, if- if you just exclude me again... I..."

Sherlock gave a small exasperated sigh. "I told you I couldn't promise you anything more than that I'll do everything in my power to protect you-"

"I'm an adult. I'm older than you. I don't need your protection."

"Sorry, did you actually just try to play the 'I'm the oldest' card?"

"Oh would you get off your high horse, Sherlock! I know you've got your kung fu moves-"

"It's called Judo-"

"-and your staggeringly huge intellect-"

"Of course-"

"-and yes I know you're always going to be a hundred steps in front of me, but _dammit_ Sherlock, they are _my_ steps- you can't keep making my decisions for me! You can't keep doing it. You wouldn't stand for it if it was the other way round."

Eyebrows raised, a slightly surprised expression. "So... this is a control thing?"

"..._What?_"

"You're feeling upset because I'm naturally more dominant than you, and what with your attacks and the resumed therapy, you feel out of control. Is that why you still haven't resumed eating properly? Because you want more control?"

John's eyes fluttered, the wind had been knocked right out of him. He stared at him with an open mouth, unable to stop the wounded feeling from creeping on to his face. Sherlock seemed to realise a second too late that it was probably the wrong time to analyse him, but he'd never been good at the softly-softly approach.

Sherlock instinctively reached towards John, who suddenly turned away, doubling over, but his hand was shrugged off. He took a deep, shuddering breath, hands on his knees as he looked up at the landscape around him. It was one thing to know that his coping mechanisms were poor at best, but it was quite another to have an insufferable git like Sherlock Holmes voice them aloud.

Out loud, it was real and heavy, and it hurt that he felt so weak. So useless, _inadequate_...  
"I...don't need you...to point out what a failure I am."

He heard Sherlock suck in a sharp breath, voice a firm rumble over the wind. "John. You are not a failure." John let his head hang, but Sherlock continued. "I told you once that you shouldn't make people into heroes, that they didn't exist. That I wouldn't be one of them even if they did." A pause. "But _you_ would be."

"Bullshit."

"Alright...You're good at putting yourself in other peoples' shoes, so try things from my perspective. Before we met, I had things set up perfectly, clinical, remote, unfettered by trivial things such as '_relationships_.'" John wondered if he'd ever be able to say that word without the distaste attached to it. "Then you walk through the door one day, and I know your history straight away, of course I do, I have you categorised and filed away as just another thing to tolerate to help me pay the bills-"

"Oh you old romantic-" John straightened up, refusing to look at the man next to him, instead looking out at the water. Sherlock continued regardless, becoming increasingly more animated as he spoke, hands moving to emphasise each point.

"But then you go and _surprise_ me. Again and again, and seemingly at random. I haven't quite got the knack of predicting it yet... Without me realising until it was too late, I suddenly have attachments, I have friendships, I have puzzles and problems with intricacies I had previously overlooked, I have a public life...I have new enemies... I suddenly have to think _beyond_ my own interests. And it is an utter minefield for me to navigate..."

John heard the frustration in Sherlock's voice, feeling that tug in his heart. Their interpretations of the world were sometimes so different that John often forgot Sherlock struggled to process things others might find very simple.

"Do you really think Mrs Hudson or Lestrade, or any of the others, would have tolerated me and my _eccentricities_ for as long as they did, for as long as they _have_, without you there to steer me...to guide me through it all?"

John recognised a huge admittance when he heard one. He was reminded of all the times he'd wondered about Sherlock after the funeral, all the times he'd lain awake at night agonising over the smallest comments, the most fleeting looks that had begun to fade in his memory... it was the few honest moments they'd shared before, moments like these, that had scratched at him, burrowing deep into the back of his mind.

_"I don't have friends. I only have one."_ John blinked away the memory, and Sherlock drew closer, not a foot from him.

"You understood the herculean task of what it meant to be involved in my life, and your resolve has never wavered. You defended me, and you still do, despite your own problems...and it's not because of some misplaced affection as some might think, but because you believe I am _right_. That I... have a _value_ outside of my abilities..."

John glanced at him, but Sherlock was looking down. He opened his mouth to say that ofcourse he had a value, but Sherlock continued, his words coming out in a passionate rush.

"But you aren't a pushover, and will stand up to anyone, including me. You've saved lives, not just because of your vocation but because that is_ who you are_, and you have done so much to try and save mine...Now here we both are, and I've hurt you time and time again and I'm sorry, I am, but I tell you, John Hamish Watson, you are _not_ a failure. On any level."

They looked at each other then, Sherlock adamant and stubborn, John surprised and somewhat shy at the description associated to him. For the longest time he couldn't say anything, he just didn't know how to respond. He wanted things to be different so badly, but how could he explain himself? How could he tell Sherlock about the disappointment, the hurt, the ache that he carried everywhere he went? Some things just couldn't be said plainly.

John took a breath, gearing himself up for what was about to come out of his mouth, "I know you haven't asked for it, Sherlock...but I want to forgive you. I _need_ to. Just look me right in the eye and tell me how. You're the genius- tell me... tell me how can I forgive you for leaving me behind?"

Sherlock's gaze wavered at his face, solemnly looking down as if trying to memorise him. "...I...shouldn't have come back."

John's heart leapt in terror at those five words, abruptly and _completely_ stricken at the thought. But Sherlock immediately leant in, pulling John to him so quickly he didn't have time to react, a strong hand on the back of his neck, the other at the edge of his jaw. "There. _Right there_. That face, that expression you just pulled. That is how you will forgive me, John, even though I don't deserve it."

God help him, but John's breath hitched, eyes already closing to the inevitable as Sherlock moved his mouth to his. Oh this _feeling_... John's hands gripped Sherlock's coat, afraid he might fall over without something to hold on to, giving in so easily to him. A shiver went down his spine as he felt those fingers flex at the base of his head, holding him tightly.

John felt the heedy rush of endorphins flow over him as Sherlock pulled away slightly, kissing his bruised lips once again, more tender than fierce this time. Murmuring encouragement to him, "Now please,_ trust me_, I can do this for you..."

John blinked, completely dazed, trying to remember how to speak English. "You... shouldn't obligate yourself-"

"John!" Sherlock tugged at the back if his hair, once, a sharp reminder. "I am not obligating myself- just let me help you. I'm not a machine- I need this too."

John felt the pang of guilt in his chest at the memory those words conjured. "_You machine!_" He'd been upset, angry that Sherlock was unaffected by what he later found out was just a lie...Mrs Hudson hadn't been injured at all.

John realised then that it wasn't his resolve that had faltered, but his reasoning- he should have known by Sherlock's reaction that something was wrong back then. This was the man who dropped an assailant out of the window for hurting their landlady for crying out loud, so to be suddenly so cold should have been glaringly obvious...But he hadn't seen it. He'd thought Sherlock was too caught up in the game with Moriarty. The trick began for him then and he'd fallen blindly into it.

"Sherlock... I didn't-"

His apology was silenced again by another kiss, a blissful numbness in his head, making him forget who was apologising to who. This time John actually pushed into it, a neediness in him surfacing which he hated to admit to, but couldn't hide. A flash image of being pushed against the wall, the feel of being wanted, needed by_ this man... _They were alone and it was so quiet, so very quiet, just the two of them, yes, he could almost-

John's stomach made a very audible gurgling noise and Sherlock began to laugh, fumbling the kiss, pulling away with a smile.

"Ready for dinner?"


	10. Chapter 10

Well I managed to get this out a lot quicker than I thought I would. This chapter was a complete pain in the arse by the way. BUT I am really quite happy with it (for once, lol). Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it because really you're driving this bhatch- all the supportive comments, reviews and fanstuffs are pure fuel. Thank you SO MUCH. I will never stop saying it. Add me to tumblr and I'll add you back! Xx

**Chapter 10**

John felt like he was having an outer body experience, but he was holding it together. Just about. They were facing each other at a table for two, candle lit and ambiance set to: _romantic_. His palms were clammy, back rigid, but at least he'd stopped fidgeting. It was fine. It was _all_ fine.

The restaurant was a converted lodge, called The Far Point, hidden fifteen minutes drive from the loch cottage. Teresa had briefly introduced him to her husband Jonah, a gentle giant with completely silver hair despite only being his early thirties. Sitting there now, he tried to remember what she'd told him about how they'd inherited The Far Point but his memory completely glazed over, so he focused on his surroundings instead.

The rear end of the old lodge was glass paned almost from floor to ceiling, jutting out over the curve of the hill it sat on. The effect not only opened up the small building, but it opened up the whole view. They sat in the corner, parallel to the window, enabling John to appreciate the scope of the land around them without the distractions of the few other people in the restaurant. He could see why people travelled to this distant spot. You could see the fading light over the mountains, the sky like royal blue ink fading into black- every star twinkling and dazzling as it revealed itself.

He hadn't seen skies so clear since Afghanistan... John wondered if Sherlock was aware of just how incredible it felt to be so blissfully isolated, but realised that this was probably why he had chosen the place. Peaceful. Remote. A gift to him.

Sherlock was the designated driver but still allowed himself a glass of red wine, John was on a light beer which he couldn't pronounce, but might as well been full strength- even after a couple of mouthfuls he could feel the alcohol spreading its warmth. Which probably explained why after about twenty minutes of hardly talking, John blurted out something which he hadn't really expected to say.

"I've always preferred women." He meant it to sound factual and assertive, but it didn't have any confidence behind it.

Sherlock didn't seem phased, just brought his glass to his lips, eyebrow quirking. "Interesting choice."

"What 'women'?"

"No, 'preferred.' I mean, to prefer something you would have to have tried all the options available to you to make that judgement."

John rolled his eyes. "Can you not over-analyse every word I say please?"

"Well have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Tried all the options available to you?"

John's eyes widened slightly, this wasn't a subject they'd ever discussed before despite their closeness- if you could ever call it that. It was bad enough that Sherlock broke into his computer on more than one occasion to read his personal emails, let alone discuss past conquests. He started to laugh then, nervously, and Sherlock looked puzzled. "Sorry, sorry...this is just...so weird I mean I can't even- we've never-"

Sherlock slid a hand over the top of his on the table. John didn't flinch, but held his breath, feeling a thumb rub on the back of his wrist, cool fingers on the sensitive underside. Sherlock leant in slightly, voice low, measured...compelling John to lean closer too.

"Have you been with a man before me?"

It took all of John's will power to keep his gaze level, but his heart still leapt up a notch. "I haven't been with you yet." He murmured, painfully aware of how he'd subconsciously added on the 'yet' part. He tried to cover it by continuing. "Bit personal for a first date..."

Sherlock slowly withdrew his hand, but John might as well have been branded by it, he could still feel the heat of it. That _touch_. Sherlock was smiling, eyes dark, he clearly had what he wanted.

"I don't need the details-"

"It was _nothing_... just a crush. In a whole other life." The words tumbled from John's mouth, he really didn't owe Sherlock an explanation at all. He felt a little defensive for it... it wasn't fair for Sherlock to deduce that about him. He frowned, bravado kicking in. "Anyway, what about you, _Mr Dominant_?"

"What do you think?"

"Well, I know what I thought before you met Ire- _The Woman_- and that surprised me... That's the only time I got a reading from you..." He felt a little bad for bringing the subject of Her up, but She really was his only reference point.

Sherlock stared out of the window for a moment before answering, face unreadable. "She was very interesting..."

"That's the thing though, Sherlock, I'm not- I'm really nothing like that... or the other one." A quick, significant glance passed between them, tables turned.

John had always known that Moriarty had had a power over Sherlock, even if he did eventually conquer it in the end. He seemed surprised that John had noticed the strange appeal. He really shouldn't have been. It triggered the same part of Sherlock that John had born witness to the night they'd tied their futures together.

Two pills, his gun and one shot. Where would they be now if he hadn't followed Sherlock that night?

"So I don't understand why... " John's voice trailed off, he needed to try a different tactic. "Back when we first met, you said in no uncertain terms that you were married to your work. You thought I was-"

Sherlock interrupted. "I thought you were coming on to me yes, I told you I was flattered, which I was. I thought you wouldn't stick around as long as you did, so it would be better to cut you off at the pass to save any future embarrassment. Yes, I am 'married' to my work, but you are quite clearly an integral part to that." He shifted in his seat, hooking an arm over the backrest, turning more towards the window. Chin up, eyes set. "I...didn't plan it this way. Like I said, I'm not used to having relationships. I've never really been able to _master_ them..."

"...So... when you said it wasn't really 'your area', you literally meant being with someone altogether, not just...a woman?"

"Have you been playing over that conversation a lot recently? It was a long time ago. Things change."

"Clearly..."

"I think perhaps you've been confusing being busy, with having no drive." Sherlock tilted his head slightly, amused, eyes glittering abruptly with that darker side of his personality. The dangerous part. John would have been a liar if he said it didn't catch his attention. "Just because I choose to rise above my baser instincts, doesn't mean I don't have them. I thought The Woman would have highlighted that quite clearly. And She didn't care for gender."

John was feeling very warm... He played with his napkin, rolling the edge back and forth on the table. "That was business."

"No, that was _drive_." The conviction in his voice was unmistakable. "It's mind over matter, John. As with most things, without the brain engaged even minimally, it is very hard to get anywhere." He smirked at the unintended euphemism, adding under his breath, "or rather, it _isn't_..."

"If you're trying to say that you find my...mind..." Yep, he was going to say it. "...a _turn-on_, please don't be offended if I laugh right in your face."

Sherlock just smiled softly, eyes cast down as if privy to a secret. John waited for him to say something more but when Sherlock didn't, he picked up his pint and took a drink. _Timing_.

"In answer to your question, I have been with men before, yes."

Men. _Plural_.

The beer went down the wrong way and John tried to glare at him as he coughed and spluttered, but there was laughter soon after, Sherlock half rising to whack him on the back.

It wasn't long before the food arrived, a large helping of sunblushed tomato and wild mushroom pasta dish for John, and some plain scottish soup broth and a roll for Sherlock. He mentally thanked the heavens that they hadn't ordered a starter. His stomach contracted at the sight of the meal, simultaneously starving hungry and nauseated at the same time. The meal itself looked and smelt wonderful, and as for the taste, it was incredible, but John was still a little on edge and he hadn't exactly been eating routinely...

_"You've lost a good twenty pounds in weight, just eat _something_ please-"_

_"It's perfectly normal to lose weight when someone _dies_, Sherlock, I can't help it if you're frustrated that I'm not the same as when you left!"_

_"It's not about being frustrated-"_

_"Just leave it. Im not hungry! Just... Leave me alone. _Please_."_

Christ, when would these guilty rants stop bouncing around, replaying again and again in his mind? It should have been John badgering Sherlock to eat not the other way around. Everything was so backwards.

John sighed, stretching out his legs under the table, bumping one against Sherlock's accidentally. It used to happen alot between them, as Sherlock's legs were longer and often encroached on his side. So it wasn't unnatural when he moved automatically... but then he saw Sherlock glance up from out of the corner of his eye.

He chewed on his pasta, considering things. Actually, it was fine, he could do that. John let his leg go back, the inside of his ankle crossing with Sherlock's. A smile appeared at the edge of his best friends' mouth -_no_- at the edge of _his date's _mouth, but John pretended he didn't notice.

He still hadn't quite got his head around what they were doing... John kept looking up at him, seeing his mouth move as Sherlock began chatting away about the Pallo case with the pollen. But he wasn't really listening. Sherlock kept nudging John's elbow occasionally, a reminder to keep the food going in, but he didn't scold John for staring at him. He was too into the deduction spiel, looking out the window, at his wine glass, a flicker to John -who still stared- and back out the window again.

Sherlock probably thought John was just hanging off his every word, when really he was indulging in the opportunity to re-familiarise himself with what Sherlock looked like. Yes, they had been around each other for a while now, but except for the times they'd argued, John had generally found it quite difficult to look at him directly for any solid length of time. It was always the back of his head, the hair, the coat...very fleetingly the eyes... But never openly like this.

Now he couldn't stop trying to absorb the line of his jaw, the freckle above his eyebrow, that pale skin, his mouth with the Cupid bow... the little furrow of lines at his brow that always appeared when he was explaining things...

John's anger had prompted this deprivation initially, but his depression had sustained it. And yes, Sherlock hated to be ignored, so it was a fitting semi-punishment. Semi-punishment because John had been hurting himself with it too.

How many times had he walked into the living room to expect to see Sherlock there, only to remember that he was dead? How many times over the past few weeks had he not expected him to be there at all, only to see that he was alive? It was psychological _torture_.

John thought about the night in the rain, where Sherlock had provoked him into kissing him, the small bit of contact they were having now bringing back the feeling of Sherlock warm and firm against him. How confused but happy he'd felt after the adrenaline and anger broke for a moment. How they'd laughed together... how John had taken a chance and said _yes_. Now here they were. Even after the yelling, even after the accusations. Even after the photos.

He was still such a mess. And yet Sherlock stayed.

John put his fork down, aware of a sudden tightness in his throat, right hand clasping his beer, bringing it to his mouth; left hand reaching out to take the back of Sherlock's hand in his. Sherlock stumbled his words, stopping altogether, clearly shocked that John had instigated contact this time.

The move clearly spoke to him... John hoped it said:_ I missed you, I'm glad you're back, please, I'm trying_...because he sure as Hell couldn't say it aloud right now. He polished off the beer in four long gulps, hoping it would bolster his residual nerves.

"You didn't hear a word I just said did you?" He wasn't angry, just watched John put the empty glass down, eyes darting to John's tongue catching a drip in the corner of his mouth. Sherlock squeezed his hand once, and seemed a little reluctant to let go when he pulled away to lean with crossed arms on the table.

"Sorry..." Avoiding any further comment on it, he nudged his bowl away, barely half done. Sherlock tried to not look disapproving but failed. He was hardly one to talk anyway, he barely ate either. "I honestly can't fit any more in."

Sherlock's lips pursed together, but after a few seconds of silence he relaxed again. "It won't always be like this. I promise. All it takes is time..." John saw him sitting there, looking quite impassive, but felt Sherlock's leg rub against his ankle. A small comfort, unseen, but that was him all over.

If no man was an island, then surely Sherlock was the exception to that rule. He was an iceberg... ninety percent of him hidden under a fathomless sea.

So what did that make John? The bloody Titanic? That image was less than reassuring.

But despite John's anxious inner demons, a few minutes chatting eventually dissolved into a few hours reminiscing about some of their strangest escapades. Sherlock didn't talk about his time away and John bit back any shitty comments that threatened to spoil the evening. He should have known things had changed significantly when Sherlock actually made a downright _filthy_ comment regarding the sheet at Buckingham Palace... And he'd laughed raucously, blushing at the same time.

They were two minutes from their home-from-home when John turned to Sherlock in the car.

"You don't do sentimental."

Sherlock took a deep breath, "I don't need to be sentimental about things to appreciate that they are absolutely necessary." John took a few moments to process that, with some extra time delay caused by the three beers. But it slowly sank in. If he wasn't mistaken, Sherlock had just done his version of a romantic statement. John was '_absolutely necessary_.'

"Do you know you are doing the face again?"

John broke out of his reverie. "What face?"

"_The_ Face." He said smiling in self satisfaction. John looked away, a shy smile emerging.

"Well I'm glad you like it so much, I've never looked so haggard..." He huffed, resigned. "More lines than a bloody road map."

"I like them."

John laughed. "No, this is the part where you say _'I hadn't noticed any lines.'_"

"And imply that smoother features are better? _Boring_ more like. Any extra lines obtained in my absence are just physical proof of why you don't owe me anything. Not your conversation, your humour, not your friendship or loyalty, and certainly nothing beyond that. But you should be aware that I'll keep trying, with dogged determination, to make it up to you. To make it worth it. I am reminded every time I look at you and _your lines."_

John was shocked, at a loss for words, did he have any idea what he just said? "Sherlock... That was..."

"'Sweet'? Yes, I know." Sherlock pulled the Defender up into park behind the generator at the back of the cottage, turning off the engine. "I meant it to be."

They sat in semi darkness for a moment. Eyes adjusting to the moonlight filtering down around the car. "Wait...are you...actually '_wooing_' me?"

"Do you feel wooed?"

John looked back at him, "...little bit, yeah."

"Then yes, I'm wooing you."

That comment did nothing to douse the heat in John's face as he watched Sherlock get out and disappear out of view.

_It's just Sherlock. He's just being flippant. Nothing more..._

John winced inwardly at leaving the Defender unlocked but stepped out into the chill, windless night air, instantly forgetting what he was worried about. He followed in Sherlock's wake, trudging across the pebbles and dirt, his mouth a little 'oh' of awe.

It was the _silence_.

It blanketed his whole world- there was no yelling, no traffic, no sirens, no cameras or news crews jabbering their questions...nothing. It was like someone had pressed the mute button. He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing. But just when he thought he had the hang of that concept, John's awareness adjusted...there _was_ sound. Movement on the water, night time creatures rustling by the trees... even the occasional sound of wings... So faint it felt like his ears were being used for the first time.

It sounded like peace.

The vista in front of the cottage was like something from a fantasy film. With no light pollution, the moonbeams pierced a small veil of stilled clouds, cutting down across the lake like a high beam torch. Everything was in sharp relief, the sharpest _focus, _despite the alcohol in John's system. Tree tops, glittering water, even all the stars, seemed to stare at him like he was the last man on Earth.

Well, not quite the last.

Sherlock poked his head back through the front door, spotting John leaning up against the wall. "Come inside, it's freezing."

"It doesn't feel cold at all-" John's voice a whisper, anything louder just seemed offensive out here.

"That's the alcohol. Come on you lightweight."

"I'm not drunk." John smiled following him into the cottage.

John took his coat off, hanging it on the hook by the door. It was only a small one-level cottage, the front door opening straight into the living room. He could see two other doors, one presumably the hall, which Sherlock disappeared through grabbing up John's backpack on the way.

It was uncharacteristically helpful of him, but as John looked around he wondered if Sherlock was just buying himself some time before explaining himself.

John frowned, a little confused. When they'd argued outside earlier, and then_ 'made-up_,' Sherlock had pretty much bundled the bags in through the door, and they'd left. John had wanted to get changed but Sherlock had insisted he looked fine and that they would be late for dinner otherwise. Now John was beginning to think it had been a bit of a ruse.

Because Sherlock hadn't just borrowed this place- he'd clearly been living in it. John licked his lips anxiously, surveying the room. Some weird paintings on the wall, haphazard books piled up, some screwed up clothes hanging off the edge of an armchair- one that looked remarkably similar to the one they had back at 221B.

When Sherlock had asked Teresa earlier if the cottage was ready, he'd clearly just meant had she done the basics like the dusting- he could see a faint line where she hadn't quite got it all off the coffee table next to the sofa.

John put his face in his hands for a second, trying to gather his thoughts. Had Sherlock been here before he left the country or was this where he was when trying to decide how to make his return?

He blinked rapidly, trying to compose himself. Tea. He needed a tea. Everything was easier to deal with when you had a brew in your hands.

John strode over to the other door which opened inwards into what he guessed correctly was the kitchen. Flicking the light on, he instantly decided that it was definitely better with the lights off. It was approximately the size of a contact lens, one sideboard with a sink, a short fridge, one cupboard next to a tiny window and -_thank Christ_- a metal teapot on top of a camping gas cooker. All in a sickly pea-green colour.

Now all he needed was a-

John blinked, surprised. He stared at what sat next to the sink, not quite believing that what he saw was real.

John slowly picked up the mug, turning it over in his hands. _His_ mug.

It was definitely his, blue striped with thin bands of gold around the edge- there was the v-shaped chip in the rim by the handle where he'd accidentally dropped it across the kitchen table. It had chipped on the base of Sherlock's microscope.

Sherlock had nearly smashed it into the bin in a nicotine-deprived fit, but only stopped when John had yelled that it was his favourite mug. He'd looked at it, declared it completely unremarkable, and whacked it down on the counter. That was about two weeks before Sherlock '_moved on_'...and John hadn't seen it since. Until now.

He'd torn the apartment up looking for it, and Mrs Hudson had gotten so upset with him but said nothing...just tried her best to console him when he couldn't find it. Had he ever apologised to her for that? Stupid really. It was just a mug. But in that moment it had felt like the biggest kick in the teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock freeze in the doorway to the kitchen. John didn't look up at first, just rolled the mug in between his hands. He'd spent the last few weeks thinking Sherlock had just been bored with his new life, that it had been that boredom that had driven him back to Baker Street, a part of him convinced that he was just a convenience for Sherlock. Like an old piece of furniture tucked away in the Mind Palace, you'd notice it if it was gone, you'd want to put it back in the old place to be forgotten again two minutes later.

But this...

This was _sentiment_.

This was:_ I didn't forget you_.

Sherlock walked over to him and took the mug out of his hands, and John released it willingly, eyes slowly following the line of his arm, his shoulder, that neck, all the way up to his face. He didn't know where he got the strength to maintain eye contact with Sherlock for as long as he did.

He expected to see arrogance, that petulant air Sherlock often got when pointing out the obvious, but instead his features were slightly guarded, restrained. He could have hidden the mug, but he left it out for John to see. Did he regret making such an obvious statement?

A buzz larger than the one supplied by the beer, hummed through him as Sherlock leant back against the counter, an arm brushing against John's.

He wasn't just needed, he was _wanted_.

He realised then that Sherlock had been thinking about him more deeply than John had given him credit for. He hadn't been encouraging (and outright taking) the touches and kisses from him because he thought it was what John needed -some comfort- he'd really, actually, truly been missing him. Longing for him. Wanting him. _Like a_... John gulped. _Like a lover would._

It dawned on him that he'd been grieving not only for the best friend he'd lost, but also for the lost possibilities. Six months of directionless existence. Six months of knowing that being with Sherlock had made him into twice the man he thought he was, and it wasn't possible without him.

Now against all odds Sherlock was back in his life, looking at him like he was the greatest puzzle of all, and he didn't know what to do with himself. John stilled, and Sherlock leant in, clearly loving the blush that was spreading across John's face.

He couldn't do this alone. He couldn't trust himself enough to not fall apart. John couldn't make the first move of putting his heart back into the hands of the one that broke it.

He looked at Sherlock, gaze hot but determined. Daring him.

_Want me so bad? Then prove it._

Sherlock must have read the command in his face, as he quickly snaked a hand around John's waist, pulling him to him, other hand grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt. Their mouths met, the fierce need of it fuelling the head rush. John practically fell against him, arms wrapping around, clinging to his taut frame.

_Taut_ not _pillowy_ - like a woman would be - it should have mattered... it suddenly didn't.

If Sherlock was trying to elaborate on the 'mind over matter' point he'd made earlier, he was making a convincing argument. John pushed into the kiss, tongues united again with that shiver of pleasure thrumming its way through his body.

John let out a gasp of surprise as Sherlock abruptly pushed him back up against the open kitchen door, the bottom of his shirt yanked out of his trousers so fast that two buttons pinged off. But before he could even think about protesting, Sherlock's hands started roaming underneath, exploring the warmth of his skin with a thoroughness that would not be appropriate in polite company.

Sherlock dove for the sensitive bit at the side of John's throat just under his jaw, kissing there, almost purring in satisfaction when a small tongue lick elicited a passionate moan from John. Took his mouth again before John had any chance to worry about what the Hell they were doing.

John grasped on to Sherlock's shoulders, thumbs skirting the edge of his collarbones, instinctively grinding up against him. The only problem was, this was not just a drunken fumble- the heavy breathing, the pounding heart, the warmth building in his hips, all these things would not be easily excused in the harsh light of day. But John had very little concept of it in that moment. He was making out with his best friend and he was thoroughly turned on.

So thoroughly turned on... until the exact second Sherlock's fingers slid around his back and grabbed his arse with both hands. John almost jumped out of his skin with the shock of it, alarm bells ringing in his head with sobering clarity.

The startled squeak he made alerted Sherlock to pull his hands away instantly, breaking the kiss and shooting him an expression which screamed _are-you-kidding_-_me_? But it was fleeting, Sherlock seeming to remember that this was all new territory for John. That he was going to have to be patient- an extraordinary feat.

"I wasn't-" Sherlock looked down with a forced half smile and heated eyes, easing off of him. "I know you aren't like _that_, John."

He was clearly alluding to the concept of people sleeping together on a first date. John licked his lips, feeling bad about ruining the moment, but also a little relieved. He didn't know if he was ready for anything else. "...But what are _you_ like?" He whispered.

Sherlock stood back, straightening, one hand on his hip and all authoritative again- but John could see the flush of colour on his cheeks. Saw him swallow, trying to recover from what they'd just been doing. It felt surprisingly exhilarating to see Sherlock looking ruffled.

"And spoil all the fun of self-discovery? I wouldn't dream of it." With that, he strode out of the kitchen and vaulted gracefully over the back of the sofa, landing horizontally. John on the other-hand had to wait for the feeling to return to his legs before he ventured out, picking up one of his two missing buttons. Where on earth was the other one?

John leant over the back of the sofa, but Sherlock was already pretending to read a book which had something to do with deer if the illustration was anything to go by.

"You owe me a new shirt."

"No I _do not_, you brought that on yourself."

John choked a laugh. "How do you work that one out?"

Sherlock peered over the top of the book, staring him dead in the eyes "because you should know better by now. You can't just _challenge me_ and then moan about the consequences when I follow through."

"I didn't challenge you." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and John was forced to concede. "Well _okay_, not verbally..." The man grunted in satisfaction, turning back to his book. John deliberated with himself for a few seconds before taking a chance.

He reached over, placing a hand on Sherlock's shirt, feeling the warmth of his stomach underneath. John felt the exact moment he tensed, but said nothing, seeing his knuckles turning white as he clenched the book. So John really did have an effect...

"I had a great time tonight..." He said quietly. "Thanks for dinner...and..." He couldn't say anything about the mug, he really couldn't. "Well...g'night, Sherlock."

John gave a little press of his fingers before turning and heading towards the hall that led to the bedroom.

"John."

He turned in the doorway, but all he could see from this angle was Sherlock kicking off his shoes over the edge of the sofa. "Yeah?"

"We aren't doing that _stupid_ thing where we wait for three days before seeing if we want another one. Another date." John watched Sherlock wriggle his toes under burgundy socks. "I'm interested. So are you. No games."

John never thought in a thousand years Sherlock would say that to him, let alone in such a serious tone. "...But you love games."

"It's not a game anymore if you've already won."

John bristled at the arrogance but it gave him a smile. "And yet you say you're still interested?"

"_Yes_."

"Strange that."

"Very."

"Must be serious."

"Must be."

John took a deep breath, a little giddy but trying to hold it in. He turned back and headed towards the bedroom, back straight and dead set on getting some sleep, as unlikely as it now was, calling back, "Alright. Fine. Whatever. Goodnight."_ Smooth, John, real smooth. Not._

"Goodnight, John."

Why did he have to sound so damn _smug?_


	11. Chapter 11

Hello my lovelies! Thanks for your patience thus far, I know it's been a bit longer since my last update, but it hasn't been due to writers block thank god, nope I've just been tremendously busy.

Anyway thank you so much for the support, you all amaze me on a daily basis xx

**Chapter 11**

John woke up to the muffled sound of Sherlock's angry voice in the distance. He rolled over under the covers, head tucked underneath the pillows. It was a few more seconds before it really sank in how welcome the disturbance was... He'd missed having an actual reason for waking up unnaturally. It was a lot better than the nightmares atleast.

The ranting stopped before John had a chance to work out what he was saying. The silence a telltale sign. He knew what came next.

John held on to the pillow over his head, maybe he could smother himself back into unconsciousness before-

Footsteps thundered down the hall, the bedroom door flung wide with a bang.

"John!"

"John's not in. Call back later." He said, face half full of mattress. He groaned when the mattress sagged and Sherlock jumped up on the bed, jostling him about. "_Nooo_, Sherlock! We're _not_ doing this!"

John wriggled further under the covers, taking the pillow with him but Sherlock simply kicked a clearing on the mattress, bouncing hard before ripping the covers up in one swoop, flinging them off the bed. The rush of cold air across his bare legs and his back where his tshirt had ridden up stung like a bellyflop into a pool. John rolled over with a growl, throwing up the pillow to whack Sherlock with, but he barely even glanced the man. The pillow was instantly pulled free and went the way of the covers. The other pillow was nowhere to be seen- he was defenceless.

Hmm, foetal position and hope it goes away? Or take it like a man?

Sherlock seemed intent for the latter, deftly side stepping and then standing over John, a leg either side of his waist. The room was so low that Sherlock had to actually duck his head standing on the bed, arms braced against the ceiling, conveniently giving him more leverage to annoy John.

"Up. _Up up up_, John." He emphasised each 'up' with a short, sharp bounce.

"I'm going- to murder you- and bury you in the woods-" He tried to sound truthful but he couldn't hide the laughter in his voice, looking up at Sherlock who he suddenly noticed was wearing not his normal suit but very expensive looking designer trekking gear.

Thick, but closely tailored black trousers, with a waterproof sheen, and a forest green long sleeved collar-less base-layer, embroidered with a small gold four-point star over his heart. John silently prayed that he was putting on at least a minimum of eight other layers over the top, because even from any angle other than this one, Sherlock was going to be very distracting in that get-up. You could see every damn line in the man, it was like the fabric was _spray painted on_ for God's sake-

He could feel the heat rise to his face at the images the view conjured. This was so weird... and yet it was becoming more normal. Thinking of him _that_ way...

He'd always thought that any underlying feelings were just wrought out of envy. Sherlock was in no way a typical Hollywood hunk, but he was tall, athletic, and would probably still look good in nothing but a dirty old bin liner... He was more 'harshly beautiful' than 'ruggedly handsome.' They were practically polar opposites... John went very still as he stared, trying very hard to look at Sherlock in the face and _only_ the face.

Sherlock gave him a slightly puzzled look at first, eyes darting across the man underneath him, observing... _deducing_... a slow smile appearing...

John flung his arms over his head with an exasperated cry, covering his eyes, trying to wriggle into the preferred foetal position but Sherlock started bouncing again. "It is half past seven. _Get up._ I want to go out. _I'm bored_. Get up. Get up. I'm bored. John. _John! _Get up!"

He really couldn't take being bounced around anymore by this fully grown child. "Alright! _Alright! _Get off me you bloody muppet-" But Sherlock closed his legs tighter, grinding an ankle with startling accuracy into the ticklish spot just below his ribs. "SH-ER-LOCK-"

John squirmed, gasping for breath, making some ungodly snorting noises, legs kicking. Very dignified for a man of his age. But when Sherlock didn't stop John grabbed him around the back of his knees and yanked as hard as he could in desperation. He managed to move his own legs just in time to stop from being squashed by Sherlock as he fell down, arms flailing.

He was still laughing about it ten minutes later, standing in the tiny bathroom having a shave. It was a wonder he hadn't cut himself. Sherlock was pacing back and forth past the open doorway.

Back into view in the mirror. "It wasn't that funny." Back out of view.

"Uh, _yes it was_."

In view. "No, it wasn't." Gone again.

"Your face though-" John pulled a very exaggerated startled impression of Sherlock in the mirror, wiping the last of the shaving cream off of his face, dissolving into giggles again. Another glance in the mirror as Sherlock passed back across the doorway. John sighed happily, it felt good to laugh.

He finished up, wishing that he'd brought some of that hair wax he used to use before he stopped giving a damn-

"It looks _fine_." Sherlock threw his hands up as he paced, becoming increasingly restless. "Please! Hurry up-"

"Yes, alright-"

"I'm going mad-"

"Well, I did say this would happen-"

"-my mind is _rotting_ as we speak!"

"Sherlock, _calm down_-"

"Ugh, you don't _understand!_"

"I just need two minutes-"

"_It's like a coffin in here!_"

John felt the words claw him right in the gut, like a fast acting poison...heard Sherlock hiss through his teeth at the mistake. He clenched the edge of the sink, biting his lip as the silence knocked the wind out of him, remembering.

He'd been stronger then. Or maybe just numb.

Dark wood, close grain, polished to a sheen so glossy, he could see his face staring back... He'd been struck dumb by the reflection, a space next to him where Sherlock should have been standing.

It wasn't the done thing to have an open casket, like you saw in films. He'd been grateful then. But he was kicking himself now. If he'd known sooner, if he'd insisted on seeing him one last time and discovered the truth, he might not have relapsed.

More guilty thoughts. No this was _his_ problem. He had to stop agonising and start dealing with it. He straightened, eyes hardening in the mirror. _Deep breath, John_.

It had been good whilst it lasted.

When he eventually stepped out into the hall, Sherlock was leaning with his back against the wall, looking down.

"Two minutes." John repeated firmly, heading back to the bedroom. Sherlock nodded once, before heading in the opposite direction.

Sherlock often teased him about the layers of clothing he wore in the city but atleast now out in the wilderness it was justified. He hadn't worn his baselayer clothes since Baskerville, and even then he hadn't needed the long shorts. The cold front rolling off the water and permeating the cottage definitely warranted them now though. They were a loose fit... but better than nothing.

True to his word they were out within a couple of minutes, Sherlock leading the way further down the side of the loch, away from the road. Gone were the leather shoes, replaced with hiking boots. Even the infamous trench coat had been left indoors.

John was more than surprised to see he actually owned another coat at all. This one was just past waist length and fitted, on the blacker side of green, like the darkest leaves on the trees they were passing. He could just see a fleece poking out at the collar, stark contrast to Sherlock's pale skin, his eyes suddenly popping with colour every time he caught a glimpse...

John cleared his throat, mentally berating himself for ogling Sherlock like some love sick puppy. The image actually conjured up a certain red head back in London. He chewed on his bottom lip with a frown, remembering their encounter in the side street.

John could see that Sherlock was on edge, but he really couldn't stop himself from asking the question that flashed on his mind. "Did you know about Will?" His breath crystallised in the cold air as he spoke.

"Who?"

"... The kid from the Ratway."

Sherlock gave a derisive snort, "what about him?"

John pursed his lips for a second, maybe he shouldn't have brought it up at all but he felt like he needed to... what? _Confess? _He hadn't done anything. "Did you know about how he... How he feels about me?"

"You have a bit of a blind spot for that kind of thing don't you?" Sherlock replied, with a flick of his head, pushing the curls out of his eyes.

"So you _did_ know- what do you mean blind spot-"

"He made a pass at you then?" Sherlock turned abruptly, John nearly walking straight into him. John stared obstinately back at him.

"You could have _warned_ me atleast."

"Did he kiss you?"

John's mouth popped open in surprise, as Sherlock fixed him with a stern look. The grumpy part of him, still sore from Sherlock's outburst in the hall, wanted to say that it was none of his business. But the other part, the bit of him that held all the unspoken feelings he had for this jealous idiot, won out and made him smile ruefully. "No... He just wanted me to choose." John shrugged, trying to be lighthearted about it. "So I chose."

He moved past Sherlock, who stood rooted to the spot, seemingly digesting what he'd just said. John kept walking even when he responded.

"You won't regret it."

John rolled his eyes. "Don't _flatter_ yourself, it was hardly a tough decision. I don't really know him, he's barely an adult which is just..._no_, just no-" He heard him moving to catch up, boots heavy on the dirt and stones. "And I don't like -"

"And you don't like _men_." Sherlock grabbed his arm at the elbow, pulling him closer, his other gloved hand reaching around to skirt along John's neck. He lingered there, face intimately close... rubbed a thumb once across the edge of his jaw. "So how can I _not_ be flattered?"

John swallowed, temporarily forgetting how to blink or breathe. In all the time they'd known each other, Sherlock had never been shy about invading his personal space. And with John it seemed to work both ways. He'd been comfortable to go along with it, they were two guy friends after all... there was nothing wrong with reaching into his pockets _when asked,_ or fishing out his wallet _when asked_, or getting him a towel _when asked-_

Now after their date it was as if all the 'close' moments they'd shared took on a whole new meaning. He was beginning to see how everyone assumed they were a couple from the get-go.

It reminded him of...

"That night...when we were handcuffed together. You really were squeezing my hand weren't you?"

Sherlock pulled back slightly, eyes sliding to the ground.

"Did you know then? Or was it earlier? About me- about _you and me_- I mean-"

"I always know exactly what you mean." His mouth quirked to the side in a half smile, looking back at John through his dark lashes. It was unnerving how his skin tingled where Sherlock had touched him, even through the layers. Even more unsettling when he found himself wishing Sherlock did it more often, as he moved away striding purposefully onwards, leaving him behind.

"Aren't you going to answer me?" Now it was John's turn to play catch-up.

"You can guess it can't you? The exact moment."

"_Sherlock_." He did his best,_ don't-fuck-with-my-feelings_ voice, which apparently did the trick.

The detective sighed heavily, begrudging having to clarify himself on this point- a point which he probably thought was painfully obvious. Looking around, he indicated with a vague wave at a gap in the trees, heading towards it. Only when they reached it did Sherlock turn to look behind them, scanning across the water with that piercing gaze. He didn't look at John when he answered.

"I knew pretty much from the beginning that I atleast felt... _something_... But as for a specific moment... it was at the swimming pool. When Moriarty tried to use you against me. When you..._offered_..." His mouth drew into a thin line, either not able to or outright refusing to elaborate on the point.

John shoved his hands in his pockets, tucking his chin down into the top of his jacket. Ashamed to think that on his darkest days he had not remembered it the same way, as an honest moment of self sacrifice for someone he...cared about... No. On more than one occasion, he'd wished the damn bomb had gone off. Wished that the whole mess had ended there.

The guilt for it gnawed him on the inside, the cold wind biting him on the outside. He really couldn't think like that. After all, if it had gone off Sherlock would probably have been caught in it anyway, and he was much more valuable to the world than John was. He really believed the pain he'd felt after Sherlock's 'death' could not be equalled by his own passing...he just wasn't... _enough_...of anything.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." John rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Was just thinking how it was a good job he confronted you the second time." John intended to laugh lightly, but it came out harsh in the air. His eyes didn't quite match it. "If it had been the other way around, we definitely wouldn't be standing here now. I've never had the brain power for elaborate plots, you know that."

Sherlock frowned, knowing that John was basically saying he would have jumped... and there would have been no '_resurrection_.' "That's not funny."

"Wasn't supposed to be. It's just the truth."

Sherlock actually looked like he was struggling to find the right words, stopping and starting.

"John... When I get carried away and I say things to you... Things like you're simple or that you're stupid...or even that you are _ordinary_... You know I don't really mean it like that. Right?"

"I _never_ know exactly what you mean." John replied, twisting his earlier words back to him with a lop-sided smile. He didn't want to talk about how he was always behind Sherlock, and how it frustrated and thrilled him in equal measure, so he changed the subject, gesturing to the dense woods in front. "So where are we off to then?"

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue with him, but decided against it, biting his lip briefly before his expression levelled out- aloof, eyes bright, a new subject to focus on.

"I made an absolutely _heinous_ miscalculation when tracking someone two months ago. Nearly lost the whole case on the back of a subtle difference between two species of deer and their tracks."

John resisted the urge to tease Sherlock about admitting to a mistake, especially since it involved a topic he wasn't comfortable with. He still found it hard to imagine Sherlock out in the world without him, and he wasn't sure if that was just egotistical... or sad. "So we're going on a deer hunt?"

"Deer, bird, plant- the Highlands are a veritable treasure trove for this type of thing. I'm rusty, but I'm sure I can teach you a thing or two-"

"Wait a minute- who says I need help with my tracking skills?"

"Well if our experiences at Baskerville are anything to go by-"

"Okay for the record, you and I were both off our faces on weaponised gas- something which you had no trouble _exposing me to,_ by the way, Mr I-Knew-I-Cared-About-You-Since-The-Swimming-Pool -" Sherlock winced. "- So your lack of faith in my tracking abilities is not only shockingly rude_ as usual_ but it also means I'm going to have to throw down the gauntlet."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Are you actually...?"

John shook out his hands. "Yep. You've forced my hand in this Sherlock." He tilted his head from side, and rolled his shoulders, in a mock-effort at warming up. He narrowed his eyes with a playful smile. "I challenge you to a _track-off."_

"Okay..." Sherlock's mouth slowly inched into a smile. "Do you have a compass?" John waved his wristwatch in the affirmative- he loved his gadgets. "Alright, name your target."

John grinned and pointed at him. "_You_."

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up, he thumbed the edge of his mouth, eyes darting, thinking, _liking_ it. "Rules?"

"You've got ten minutes to find refuge somewhere, you can either just run, or use some of the time hiding your tracks but ten minutes is all you get. It'll be my turn to hide when I find you-" Sherlock snorted at the thought, "but in the _unlikely_ event that doesn't happen, phone signal is not going to be great so we'd better meet back at the cottage at twelve hundred hours." Sherlock nodded, checking his own pocket compass and watch. "On your marks, get set...Go!"

He hesitated. "And if I win?"

John was already counting down, not looking at him. "Then you win a prize or something. Nine fifty."

"What kind of prize?" Sherlock was fidgeting, caught between wanting to leave and wanting to bargain.

"Anything you like. But remember, after your _stunt_, we're both incredibly broke so don't go wild. Nine forty."

"_Anything_ I like?" John's eyes flickered up to him at the slight drop in the other man's voice, saw the devious flash in his eyes. There was that forgetting-to-breath thing again. He tore his gaze away.

"Nine thirty."

Sherlock bolted away like a greyhound out of a trap, kicking up dirt in his wake. The urge to chase after him was so strong that he actually moved forward on instinct, but he stopped himself short. Sherlock headed up the slope dodging between trees, not one look back. He still had seven and a half minutes to go when John finally lost sight of him.

What followed was nearly a full three hours of the most ridiculous over-glorified hide and seek game he'd played in years. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was a dirty player. Quite literally. After they'd found each other in round two, Sherlock had resorted to semi burying himself in loose leaves and branches, John finding him by tripping over him, nearly breaking his ankle in the process. Sherlock insisted that one didn't count, but _of course_ it did.

The hiding places only got more elaborate for Sherlock as each round progressed, up trees, in small hollows, cracks in the occasional jutting rocks... John on the other hand made it more difficult by covering his tracks better and better each time- he really could be quite nimble sometimes, even if he was lacking in the graceful department.

His best manoeuvre had to have been crossing a small stream, leading his tracks away, and then pulling himself up on to a branch that doubled back over the water the way he had come. It was old school, and predicable- so predicable Sherlock almost dismissed it. But a mud smear on the bark had caught his eye, and John was found in the branches above.

It was coming up to lunch, when they decided to head back towards the cottage, both thoroughly warmed and dirty faced from the mornings exercise in the cold.

John checked his compass, making sure they were headed in the right direction. Sherlock had been, for want of a better word, _sulking_ for about fifteen minutes at that point.

"It _does not_ count."

"It bloody _does,_ Sherlock. I tracked you to the area, I was looking for you, I found you. End of story. Just because you were prostrate in the dirt at the time, does not discount it." John was jubilant, riding high despite the tied results. This argument was fast becoming his personal victory.

Sherlock tried to be angry, but for some reason he found the word 'prostrate' very amusing. He tried to suppress the laughter, making a strange choking squeak sound which then set John off. Then all at once they were back to that strange_ I'm-looking-at-you-but-not-looking-at-you_ phase, exactly like after the dared kiss in the rain.

John clenched his hands as they walked, awareness of a change kicking in. Sherlock's focus was becoming increasingly intense on him the more they caught each other's eye, until John became so flustered by it that he just stopped and stared at him. Sherlock doubled back slightly, looking away from John with a quick flick of that blood red tongue across his lower lip. The mood shifted quite rapidly after that.

It still awed him how Sherlock could transform from his giggling best friend into someone who was clearly mentally undressing him... _slowly_. If John wasn't careful it would soon be a reality. He swallowed. Did he want to be careful?

_What do you see...? Why me?_

With Sherlock below him on the slope, they were practically eye level. The hairs on the back of John's neck felt like they were standing on end as Sherlock reached towards him and pulled a leaf out of one of his button holes.

"Hungry?"

John was. But the list probably didn't begin and end with just food. "Starving."

Sea green eyes, flecked with amber and gold today. The kind of eyes that could see straight through his calm façade. The kind of eyes that could see his accelerated but shallow breath in the air. The kind of eyes that could-

"Oh!" Sherlock's attention darted away, spotting something past him. The tractor beam was broken, letting John slump down to sit still and have a long hard think about his libido, whilst Sherlock dashed off. "John, look at that!"

John didn't look. "Yep. That's great Sherlock." He put two fingers on each temple and breathed deep, trying to get his heart rate back down to a sensible level.

His footsteps gradually faded, several minutes passing before John actually got enough sense back to see what Sherlock was up to. Getting to his feet he couldn't see him for a moment, a crease of worry on his face. But he finally caught sight of a flash of something pale in the distance. He stepped up the slope a little to get a better line of sight through the trees. Sherlock was crawling up a large rock formation that pierced out of the ground like a gnarled tooth- even the trees seemed to lean way from it, so bizarre was its presence there.

John cupped his hands round his mouth to help his voice travel. "What are you doing?!" Apparently Sherlock's blatant disregard for anything sensible had now extended to extremely unstable-looking natural wonders. Sherlock didn't answer him, just continued climbing. John sucked in a breath through his teeth, seeing parts of the stone crack and fall. "Sherlock! Get down you idiot! It's not safe!"

Even from here he could see the icy dew glinting in the light over the grey stone, but it didn't deter Sherlock from balancing himself on top of it. It was just like Baskerville all over again, it was like Sherlock had to be the most prominent feature in any given area- he really couldn't seem to help himself.

Sherlock pointed. "I can see the cottage from here!"

"Yes, well done!" He really was dating a child afterall. His cheeks became ruddier at the thought, he trudged towards him. "Now can you get the fuck down please?!"

Sherlock gave a flouncy hand movement, attempting to indicate that John was just mother-henning him again, but all it actually achieved was giving John a near heart attack as the movement unbalanced Sherlock for a moment. "It's alright-" He regained it immediately.

"Would you be careful!"

Sherlock crouched down, finding a foothold. "I am! Stop yelling, you're scaring off the wil-" He was cut off as he completely lost his grip on the top of the smooth stone. Sherlock was flung backward by gravity, hands scrabbling at nothing but air, as he fell several metres down to the ground below with a terrible, resounding thud. This time there was no laughter, just the mind numbing silence of panic.

John saw his prone body, and felt his stomach lurch, his insides taking a nosedive as he climbed closer. He willed his body to obey him, but it was already spiralling out of control. _Please, please don't do this, not now-_

_"Goodbye, John."_

_Thwack!_

_Blood, people running, yelling-_

_"Please...let me through...please he's my friend...oh god no..."_

John squeezed his eyes shut, falling down on to one knee, grabbing on to the ground. He was only a few metres away, he was so close. The cold breeze suddenly feeling like it had the power of a hurricane against him, threatening to blow him over, a loud tinny sound ringing in his ears as he tried to focus. "Sh..._Sherlock_..." He gulped in air, voice barely a whisper. He would not pass out, he would _not!_

Sherlock stirred, hands moving to grope at the grass around him. John spotted this, his inner self screaming that he had to get his act together before Sherlock did himself any more injury.

_You can do this. Come on. Come-_

"_C'mon_!" John bit into his own raised leg, as hard as he could. He had two layers of clothing to contend with, but the pain slowly seeped into his perception. Then all at once, a rush of it cut through the mental fog that threatened to blanket him completely. Adrenaline must have counted for something as he was soon barking orders.

"Sherlock, don't move!"

"John...?" Sherlock began to turn his head towards him.

"If you move, I _will_ strangle you!" John threatened, staggering like a newborn foal, legs not really sure what to do with themselves. He swore loudly as he fell backwards onto his arse, falling into a dip, hearing Sherlock giggling as John struggled to right himself. At least he was conscious. "That's right, _laugh it up_. You won't be laughing when I'm sick all over you again."

But Sherlock just laughed harder.

John eventually managed to scrabble his way over to him, falling to his knees beside Sherlock, fighting against the nausea. He was a doctor first and a PTSD sufferer second, he could do this. He _would_ do this.

Sherlock's dirt smeared and totally unimpressed face did not help things, it just made him more furious.

"I hate you, Sherlock, I _actually_ hate you." John said through gritted teeth, feeling along the back of Sherlock's neck, checking for damage.

"No you don't, you love me."

John froze, shocked at those words, their eyes locking together. It felt like the bottom had fallen out of his stomach, a new fear rolling over him. "Shut up, Sherlock."

The smile faded from Sherlock's face, seeming to realise the gravity of that harmless remark, finally coming to some sense at last. But he didn't go red like John would have if he didn't feel so ill, no, Sherlock didn't blush... He was completely calm, eyes soft, mouth parted slightly, just looking back at John as if he was seeing him for the first time. Understanding.

_As if you didn't already know_.

John forced himself back into doctor-mode, raising a pointed finger over Sherlock's face, drawing it from side to side. "Follow my finger with your eyes."

Sherlock actually did as he was asked. "You're shaking."

John's frown deepened. "...You scared me."

"It was an _accident_-"

"An easily avoided one!" John snapped, resolve wavering. "You just don't get it do you? Even now you- _would you stop wriggling!"_

Sherlock clenched his hands, giving John a pointed look. "I can't stop being me, John."

His anger lessened, but he was still so shaken by what had just happened. He finished his checks, turning away. "I'm not asking you to. I just... I said to you... _I told you-"_ Just a few deep breaths. It was water off a duck's back. Sherlock wasn't injured, just momentarily dazed by the fall. He was alright. John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm his racing heart. "You're fine."

"I know. Can I get up now?"

"Do what you like." The words came out with a bite, which he regretted but didn't apologise for. John got up, narrowly avoiding Sherlock reaching for his sleeve, trudging back down the incline.

"Wait." He ignored the frustrated call. "John!"

His eyes stung, leg throbbing where he'd bit it, he just wanted to get back to the cottage, lay in the dark for a month, oh god how long could he hide out there? Sherlock would be dead within a week, he was a city boy wasn't he? Oh god_, oh god-!_

Sherlock caught up to him just in time, taking him by the arm, guiding him to the ground. John's head pounded painfully from the after effects of the near faint he'd pushed through, his stomach rolling so much that he had to cover his mouth with his hand, for fear of vomiting. Stupid really, if it was going to come out a few fingers wouldn't stop it.

"Breathe. It's alright. Just breathe."

Sherlock could be surprisingly soothing, gentle even, when he wanted to be...

After sitting with his head between his legs for a few minutes, John gingerly sat up, wiping his sweat-slicked brow on the back of his sleeve. It was only then he realised that Sherlock still had a hold of his arm, crouched in the grass next to him. But he didn't get his guard up quite fast enough this time. John's eyes widened.

It was back.

The pained look on Sherlock's face that had been captured in Mycroft's photos.

Sherlock squeezed his arm with a little more force than was necessary, but John kept quiet, watching those vibrant eyes look up to the tree tops briefly.

Jaw tensed. Mouth jammed shut. Eyes wavered. A million thoughts racing behind them, but he was fighting against it. You could see it all happening to him. A single man holding back a flood.

In that moment John saw the mask slip. And it _terrified_ him.

What the fuck had they done to each other?

A few blinks and it was over, Sherlock back in full self-control, not a single trace of helplessness or guilt left behind. He let him go. But just with everything else, once seen, it couldn't be unseen. John's heart twisted painfully... the_ this-is-huge-so-HUGE_ feeling rocking through him.

"I'm sorry." He sighed. "I overreacted. Please don't-"

"I'm not mad at you." Sherlock looked genuinely appalled at the thought. "You can't hel-"

"Kiss me."

He stared at John. "..._What?"_

The words had just slipped out. Really they had. His brain-to-mouth capabilities still not fully functioning... But that still didn't explain why he tentatively raised a hand to Sherlock's head, pushing his fingers into those thick curls, feeling the warmth of him under the touch. How many times had he secretly wanted to do that?

Sherlock remained very still, as if John were a timid animal that might be scared off at the slightest movement. But the reaction was there... a fractional widening of the eyes, pupils dilating, a slight pinch of his mouth, the colour flushing his lips as the pressure relaxed...

John had the distinct feeling that he might not actually be getting better at reading Sherlock, but that this incredible man was revealing more of himself. Just to him. Sherlock was being the brave one, like he'd said. Because he trusted John. Because he wanted to give him something back. Because-

His eyes half closed as Sherlock moved towards him, his hand sliding out of his hair, down behind his neck. But he didn't go straight for the mouth like he expected, Sherlock instead wrapped him up in a tight full frontal hug, burying his head in John's neck.

With the weight of Sherlock on top of him, they slid down the bank a little, but John held him back just as tightly, fingers digging into clothes, air almost squeezed out.

It was different this time... not forced or unwanted, not pushed away, not conflicted. It was '_I need you',_ '_don't scare me like that', 'I'm sorry' _... it was the four letter word.

A word somehow so inadequate for all of this.

John felt the kiss on his neck, pushing his face into that chestnut mop, kissing back, just once. Firmly.

Sherlock was right, it wouldn't always be like this. The ache would weaken. It would be filled, it would be covered, by something more. One day it would be nothing but a faded scar, like all his old wounds. John could wait.

He still believed in Sherlock.

John coughed, purposely signalling it was time to stop. He'd shed enough tears, he wasn't ready for more today. He clapped both hands on Sherlock's back, who slowly released him. "Okay that's enough _Brokeback Mountain_ for one day."

Sherlock looked pale but otherwise unphased by what had just happened. Back to normal. Just so. "What's Brokeback Mountain?"

Well, he'd walked straight into that one. "...It's a film." He tried to think of a good way to put it. Sarah and him had watched it together once. It was beautifully directed, but... Yes, it was heartbreaking and left him feeling extremely uncomfortable for some reason. Sarah had cried, he'd comforted her, but was left wanting... "It's a tragedy. About two guys who really..._like_ each other." John scratched his chin nervously.

"What's so tragic about that?"

John sighed, educating Sherlock on film and television wasn't exactly his favourite thing to do, and the parallels were somewhat close at heart now. "It wasn't _acceptable_, Sherlock. People didn't like them being different."

"Other people don't matter." It really was that simple for Sherlock, so simple it eased some of the frown lines in John's face.

"They still couldn't be together..."

Sherlock looked considerably annoyed by the whole idea. "But we _are_ together, John." John closed his eyes... so this was it.

He felt the touch at his sleeve again, a worried look passing across Sherlock's face. It was relieved only by three little words and a shy smile.

"...Yes. I know."


	12. Chapter 12

WARNING! WARNING! THIS IS YOUR AUTHOR SPEAKING!

The following content depicts scenes of a homoSEXUAL nature. I.e. the smut I have denied you all for so long. Man on man action. Gay interactions. I'd say on a scale of 1 being I'm Not Gay, to 10 being You Appear To Have Left Something In My Rear Good Sir, you're looking at about a 7. So don't say I didn't warn you!

With that said, I will leave it to the immortal words of Khan from Star Trek Into Darkness:

_"Now... shall we begin?"_

**Chapter 12**

John woke up with a scream dying in his throat. Momentarily frozen, not recognising where he was, the sudden flash of lightning making his heart pound hard against his chest in terror. He sat up, gathering the covers to his face, hunched over, a raw shudder shaking his shoulders.

The roll of thunder, deep and penetrating, masked the sound of his bedroom door opening. But he _knew_... he could feel those eyes. John looked up briefly at the silhouette in the doorway, still trying to choke back the tortured noise that escaped his mouth. He rolled over on to his front, putting his back to the door, angrily punching one of the pillows on to the floor.

John covered his mouth, biting his hand, trying to use the pain as a distraction like before. A distraction from the fear, the sheer panic, that his mind forced him to relive at night. He felt the bed give under Sherlock's weight, but John couldn't look at him. He was too open, too exposed. Lightening flashed, John flinched and Sherlock leant over him.

"Stop that." Sherlock's voice was barely audible over the sound of rain hammering against the building. He pulled at the hand John was biting, but the contact was too much, making him want to lash out. Nerves on a knife edge.

"Don't!" John tried to shake Sherlock off, but it only gave the taller man more leverage to pull him closer. He growled in frustration, kicking out under the covers, but Sherlock simply hooked a leg over the top, pinning him down. Within seconds, John was wrestled to a halt on his side, wedged with his back up against Sherlock, both of his wrists held to his chest by the arms wrapped around him. "Get _the fuck_ off me or so help me I will -!"

Sherlock shushed him, soft curls touching the left side of his face. John was grateful for the darkness that filled the room, he could feel the tear tracks burn his face with embarrassment.

"I will when you've calmed down."

"I am _calm_-"

"Stop shaking then."

"I can't just turn it on and off!"

"Then I'll wait with you."

"_Sherlock_-!"

"_John_." He placed a warm, and deliberately slow kiss, to the side of John's jaw just below his ear. John felt the stutter/start of his mind trying to process everything and contend with that distraction... he couldn't do both at once.

For a moment John thought it was thundering and he'd just missed the flash of lightening, but then he realised that it was Sherlock murmuring against his neck. Low reverberations tingling his skin, it made his heart twist.

"...s'alright. Just breathe. This isn't the end. _You aren't dying_. It's alright. I've got you. This _will_ pass. You _will_ conquer this. Just breathe."

John let out a strangled breath that he didn't even know he'd been holding in. Those words were more than he could hope to hear from anyone, let alone Sherlock, who whispered them with such confidence and conviction... like he really believed in John. Oh god, it felt like he was breaking in half. He wriggled a hand free, covering his face... he was so _ashamed_. To be this frail. This weak. It was disgusting. Why couldn't he just go back? Why didn't the nightmares stop?

"I didn't...I don't want you...to see me like this..."

Sherlock's now empty hand pressed against the front of John's bare chest. "I can't see you, it's pitch black-"

John made a sound half way between a laugh and a sob, some of the tension dipping out of his shoulders, but still he kept his hand over his eyes. "Yes, you can. You always _see_ me..."

"Now who's the egotistical one?"

Lightning flashed again, throwing the room into high contrast, startling John into dropping his hand. Not missing a beat, Sherlock reached up and turned John's head towards him. They were plunged into darkness again, just as their mouths met.

There was the fizzing crackle in John's mind as he tried to make sense of what was happening, pinned under the lithe but intensely strong man he'd been grieving over for so long, head held firmly, one wrist pressed to his chest with long fingers... But he gave in quickly to the sensation of Sherlock's touch against his lips. Blindly, John's free hand reached up for Sherlock, fingers groping into thick curls, wanting him _closer_-

John felt the flicker of a hot tongue against him and responded accordingly, tension falling out of his tired muscles, as he leant back into Sherlock's hold, mouth opening to him. A terrible thrill snaking its way through his body, right down, deep into his groin.

Thunder rolled over the cottage, and John moaned into the kiss.

_I missed you, I need you, fix me, please-_

"Sher-" he was breathless, overwhelmed, getting incredibly turned on and oh god what was he doing? One homoerotic crush as a young adult did not account for the kind of reaction he was having to the genius in his bed. This was the real deal, wasn't it? _Shit!_

Sherlock moved back slightly and John, God help him, actually moved _with_ him, turning on to his back, still wrapped in those long arms. But when a hand brushed back down on to his chest, Sherlock's fingers grazed his nipple, the shock of it making John jump, breaking the kiss. He felt like reality was smacking him in the face. This could be one of the biggest mistakes of their lives. There was still time to put a stop to this. He could do it. If he wanted to.

They lay there together, the drum of rain echoing around the sound of their breathing. Slowly, Sherlock's hand slid further down his chest, following the light smattering of hair that lead underneath the covers. John felt the covers move, his heart hammering in his chest as Sherlock neared his boxers, but he panicked at the last moment grabbing his wrist to stop him.

John could feel the smile spread over Sherlock's face, as he was kissed on the corner of his mouth, along his jaw, more touches trailed towards his ear. His nose nudging him gently to get better access. Tender and possessive. It sent shivers rocketing up and down his spine. There was no mistaking Sherlock's intentions.

This wasn't pity-play, this was...

"Do you want more control, John?" John shivered at the seductive whisper... he was aching for this, and Sherlock knew it.

Permission.

He was being given _permission_.

He could have this, he could be selfish, he could be vulnerable, he could be whatever he was and take whatever he wanted... Because Sherlock wanted it too.

But without the distraction of being thoroughly kissed, doubts and nerves kicked in. Did Sherlock have the slightest idea what it would do to him if this went wrong? What if Sherlock got bored, what if this was the last stage of interest for them and it all fizzled out? He was torn between need and fear.

This was ridiculous! How could it be that you could put a gun in his hand and he'd shoot with deadly accuracy, but one throaty whisper could turn him into a quivering mess?

John felt Sherlock drum his fingers on the edge of his boxers, impatiently. He squeezed Sherlock's wrist, a movement that said _don't-rush-me-idiot_. He knew control, he was a man, he knew what to do. But... this way round... well...

John closed his eyes, wanting what Sherlock was offering and yet not sure if he should take the first step. But in all honesty the first step had probably been in play long before Sherlock had made his return. He thought back to being alone in Sherlock's room for the first time.

The quiet. The suffocating _absence_ of him.

Ofcourse he had fallen apart. He'd been lost for so long... Ofcourse it had nearly killed him.

John squeezed his eyes shut, not that it made a difference in the dark but it somehow made it easier to do what he'd decided. He turned his face in towards Sherlock's tshirt, under his chin, breath hitching as he pushed Sherlock's hand below the waistband of his boxers. No backing out now.

He felt the intake of breath from Sherlock as his cool fingers wrapped around his already hardening length, and John practically growled into his neck. "I swear, if you say _one damn thing_ about the size of my-"

Fingers wound into his hair pulling his head back so Sherlock could smother the sentence with a deep kiss. John's hold on his wrist faltered, fingers trying to find some kind of purchase as Sherlock curved his grip around him, sliding up and down once, twice, three times-

John bucked against him, a break in the kiss letting him catch his breath with a deep moan, one hand wound into the front of Sherlock's tshirt, the other clinging to his arm.

"Oh, John..." His low voice purred into his perception, almost unbearable when coupled with the rub of Sherlock's thumb over the sensitive tip of his length. With one leg trapped between both of Sherlock's, he couldn't help but raise the free one, kicking off the covers partially, toes digging into the mattress.

It had been an absolute age since he'd touched himself, let alone been touched by someone else. Even in the time since Sherlock had been back, even with all that had been going on between them, this was the first time he'd allowed himself to have this. And he was desperately hungry for it.

"_Nnh_! H-harder-!" John was so far gone into his building arousal, that he didn't even care that Sherlock was laughing lightly at what was now _his_ impatience. Up, down, up, down- he could feel his muscles tightening. "-Said _harder_-" John demanded between gasps pulling Sherlock's mouth back to his own. This time he obliged.

As Sherlock's grip tightened ever so slightly, he felt the intensity change as precum slicked his quickening pace. The waistband of his boxers chaffed his hips but it only added to the illicit feeling that edged his pleasure. Sherlock had always been one to push boundaries, but now John was fully culpable for helping him to break the one that guarded their friendship.

"_Ahhn!_" John clamped a hand over his own mouth, trying to smother the sounds that came out of him without warning.

Sherlock, in his own words, may not have mastered the whole 'relationship thing' yet- but oh God did he know this part atleast. John's hips jerked up on instinct, pushing into his hand again and again. He felt the commanding grip of Sherlock's hold on his hair, _oh how he liked it_, it was obscene. John was clinging on to him again, turning in towards Sherlock slightly, throat exposed to that tricky mouth.

"Those _noises_..." That voice in his ear again. Low, gravelly, never-heard-before-

If in the last week or so John had worried about whether his own interest was just due to some emotional crossed wires, if he'd ever doubted what getting physical with this man might be like, then this moment laid it all to rest. It was completely dark, so for all intents and purposes John could have imagined _anyone else_ touching him, in fact any one of his random fantasy women would have done.

But _no_. He was very much aware that it was _Sherlock_ who had a hold of him, it was _Sherlock_ who was making him shiver all over, it was _Sherlock_ who he was moaning into.

And the hard-on pressed into his side might have also have had something to do with keeping him on track. He should have been shocked, he should have been the one to say no, he should have pulled away completely... not urging up against it.

_Yes, yes, more, do it-_

"God, John, let it _go_. Give it up-"

John opened his eyes to the darkness, the pressure building, muscles quivering, _almost_-!

And suddenly lightning flashed again, revealing Sherlock's hand shoved down his boxers- it was too much-!

"Give it up for _me_."

The command tipped John over the edge, the darkness falling over them again as he cried out into Sherlock's shoulder, the hot jet of come shooting up in heavy spurts on to his stomach. His orgasm rocked through his whole body, making his toes curl with wicked bliss, forcing him to draw in several shuddering breaths in its wake.

The tension of release drained out of John rapidly, leaving him boneless and panting, collapsed in Sherlock's arms. He felt his hand release him, sensitivity making his leg twitch as Sherlock withdrew, elastic waistband flicking back down.

Within seconds John's head went extremely cotton-wooly, but he absently registered the movement of Sherlock wiping his hand on the sheet. Another couple of seconds of movement and fumbling in the dark, and John had some tissues pushed into his hand. He did his best, but even in his post-orgasmic fog, he hoped there were spare sheets somewhere.

"Better?" The whisper was curious, but self satisfied. It didn't require answering.

Throwing the tissues away in some random direction, John reached for Sherlock, hand finding the waistband of his pajama bottoms as thunder rolled in the distance. The storm was moving. Was it satisfied too?

It was only fair he returned the favour, in for a penny, in for a pound. Be it the lack of blood to his brain, or genuine intent, the prospect of touching Sherlock in the same way wasn't as scary as he'd thought it would be. He was actually quite compelled by the idea... But he was stopped in his tracks by Sherlock, who expertly rolled him over away from him on to his front. John made a surprised grunting noise in protest- that was going too fast!

"Wait-!"

"_Relax_..." He could practically hear the smirk. "Don't panic... not tonight."

"...What?"

"You're _boiling_. Cool off. Go to sleep." Sherlock ordered, somehow straightening out the sheet in the dark so that his legs weren't caught up.

"But... don't you... I mean..." His voice was sluggish and meek, pressing his face to the new found cool spot on the mattress.

"Despite evidence to the contrary, it isn't always about me...next time maybe."

He felt Sherlock move towards the other side of the bed, as if to leave. John's hand shot out, grabbing him on the arm. An embarrassingly needy movement, but he didn't regret it. The other man paused, then shuffled down into the mattress, under the sheet, a reassuring squeeze of his hand.

"Did I ever tell you about the time that I-"

John was unconscious before he even finished the sentence. He must have fallen deeply back into sleep as he was so slow to wake up the second time round.

He wriggled under the sheet, pulling his chin in to get away from the chilled air that was pawing at him. Not good enough. So John rolled over, instinctively burrowing into the warmth next to him.

_The warmth next to him._

His eyes opened with a snap, and there, practically pressed up against his face were the faint contours of Sherlock's partially exposed chest. He was sleeping on his back, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes. His top half leant away slightly, revealing the taut curve of a few ribs uncovered by his ruffled t-shirt.

John raised his head, and unblinking, looked across the full length of Sherlock, bed-hogger extraordinaire. It took a few seconds of stunned silence before the memories of last night slammed into him. Sucking in half a breath, he felt the blood rush to his face at the images flashing through his head, well, better it rush there than down _there_-

_Shit_. He mouthed silently. _Shit, shit, SHIT._

As he carefully rolled himself back to the edge of the bed, he could feel the remains of last night's encounter scratch against his skin. It had been a number of years since he'd wrecked a pair of boxers like that, and was conclusive proof that, _yes_, last night had happened.

John swung his feet out on to the floor, annoyingly the bed was so high that only the tips of his toes touched the cold floorboards. He sat there for a while, bare chested and freezing, but completely distracted by the revelations of _last night_ and the predicament of _now_.

Trying not to wake Sherlock, he gently eased himself off the bed, breathing a small sigh of relief as the wood panels held his weight without any creaking complaint. John moved over to his bag on the armchair in the corner of his room, quietly retrieving some fresh clothes to take to the shower with him.

Using said clothes as a sort of shield to cover his front, he tip toed over to the door which was still slightly ajar from the night before.

As if he could ever get away with sneaking off.

"What's that?"

John nearly leapt out of his goose-bumped skin, grabbing at his falling clothes just in time to stop from dropping them. "Hm?" Face open, helpful demeanour, but body as rigid as an ironing board.

"Those are _teeth marks._" Sherlock said, sitting up fully alert with a puzzled expression.

"What?!" John squeaked, looking down in a panic. But he needn't have worried when he realised that Sherlock was looking at a contusion -a bruise- on his thigh above the knee. Now that he noticed the purple lump, with mottled teeth marks, it actually throbbed in pain. "Oh that, it's nothing... When you fell in the woods, I had to do something to stop from...having another funny turn. It'll go in a week. No big deal."

Sherlock gave him a hard look which seemed to indicate that it was a very big deal, but he said nothing, mouth in a tight line. John glanced down at the clothes in his arms, his tongue flicking to the edge of his mouth anxiously.

"Right. Well... I'm going to take a shower..."

He watched as Sherlock seemed to ignore this, just laying back down, eyes closed, a hand casually placed where John had been. Images of last night flashed through his mind like neon signs in a red light district.

_Mouth, hands, lips, "oh John..."_

He cleared his throat with a slightly strangled cough, and slipped out of the room, internally yo-yoing between embarrassment and guilty arousal. John put his clothes on top of the lid of the toilet and switched on the shower. Atleast he'd remembered to switch the electric storage heater on last night, the steam proved that the generator had prevailed even through the hammering storm.

He went to lock the bathroom door and hesitated.

After he'd moved back to 221b, John had developed a bit of a compulsion to lock up the doors and windows, no longer comfortable to be as lackadaisical as Sherlock had been. Even had a deadbolt put on his bedroom door. But now Sherlock was back, and they clearly would be living together indefinitely, he'd have to try and relax some of these habits or it would drive them both crazy.

Should he lock the door or leave it open? Was that too much of an invitation? It wasn't that John regretted last night, the butterflies in his stomach testified to quite the contrary, but he was still in a bit of shock over it all. Then again, wouldn't Sherlock be offended if he went to come in and the door was locked? They were... an item now, right? Well that changed a lot of things. He didn't _have_ to do anything, but being in a pair like that opened up more scenarios...

A small smile crept on to his face, but he rolled his eyes and shook it off, leaving the door open, kicking off his boxers and hopping into the now scalding hot shower. He was adamant that he was not going to dissolve into some teenager who felt all their dreams had come true because the reality was far from it.

He'd just managed to wash his hair and was just scrubbing himself down, when he began thinking of how Sherlock had repeatedly put up with his ranting and his violent outbursts. He'd kicked, he'd punched, he'd sworn, he'd hurt him and Sherlock had stuck it out.

_"I hate you, Sherlock, I actually hate you"_

_"No you don't, you love me."_

John flipped the shower stream to cold and put both hands on the wall, gritting his teeth as it pounded down over his neck and back, flowing over him. He rotated his shoulder with the scar, wishing it was all enough to wash away the tension that crawled back up into every inch of him. It was called 'the harsh light of day' for a reason.

He turned the shower off when he couldn't stand the chill any longer, visibly shivering as he stepped out. For a split second he thought Sherlock might have teleported into the room in that eerily silent way of his, but he was alone. He pulled a towel off the rack and wrapped himself up in it, but the cold shower had done nothing to eliminate that man from invading his thoughts.

Even alone in the bathroom, drying off, he didn't really know where to look or what to expect from the day beyond getting dressed. He almost didn't even want to do that. Would it be awkward? They'd already technically spoken, and Sherlock had dropped straight into some weird concerned-and-irritated funk which annoyed him (he wasn't a child after all) but secretly pleased him (Sherlock? Caring?) at the same time.

John was just pulling his trousers on when he heard footsteps passing by the door. He automatically held his breath... but they faded away into the living room.

_ "Don't panic... not tonight."_

_"...Next time maybe."_

He spent an abnormally long time brushing his teeth, a dazed expression on his face that had very little to do with sleep deprivation and more to do with his stranger-than-fiction love life. This mirror was going to see the whole range of human emotion if their stay continued to be as unpredictable as this.

T-shirt on, jumper on, socks on.

Sherlock likes me, Sherlock wants me, Sherlock touched me.

It took him two attempts to leave the safety of the bathroom, but he managed it after screaming internally more than a few expletives to bolster his nerves. He was Captain John Hamish Watson, Assistant Surgeon in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers for Christ's sake. If he could stare down the barrel of a gun completely unphased, then he could damn well look into the eyes of a man who just recently jacked him off.

In theory.

When John finally walked into the living room, he found Sherlock perched on the edge of the armchair, back slightly to him. He noticed the movement of him putting something into his pocket, and it sparked his interest, or rather, his suspicion. Sherlock had this subtle way of moving sometimes, almost like a magician with a slight-of-hand trick, it usually meant he was stealing something or hiding something.

"Any signal?" John was guessing that he had been looking at his phone.

Sherlock turned his head towards him, but was looking down at John's socks, not at him. A small smile. John looked down. They were his union flag socks. One of his favourite pairs. Meanwhile Sherlock was fully dressed except for socks and shoes.

It actually really annoyed John that Sherlock could shove a random pile of clothes into a holdall and yet still be sat there without a single unsanctioned crease in sight. Maybe Teresa snuck in and pressed his shirts at night? John pinched his mouth together at the thought of someone interrupting them the night before. He wasn't fickle. He would have been more embarrassed for Sherlock than for himself, he was definitely getting the raw end of the deal.

"No. No signal. The storm won't have helped."

John wasn't really listening now though. He walked over to the window by the front door, looking out past the nets. The loch was grey and choppy. Uninviting.

What would the others back home say? Would they keep it a secret? Did it need to be a secret? He'd already become a social outcast, the media had done the rest, so did any of it matter?

Footsteps, a hand on his lower back, he kept his eyes forward.

"Could you stop worrying for a little while? Only it's sucking the light out of the room, which makes it very hard to read-"

"Who was the text from?" John felt the fingers press into him slightly. "Or was it an email?" He dared to look at him then, knowing he was right. But still the detective remained impassive, regarding him quite cooly despite the touch. "Sherlock, when are we going back?"

Sherlock dropped his hand, pinching his lips together, debating on a answer to give. "When you've recovered-"

"I might never recover." John wasn't so easily put off.

"Then we'll never go back." Sherlock replied haughtily, turning away and jumping on to the sofa, his back to the window and to John, picking up a book.

"I'm _serious_."

"So am I."

John laughed derisively. "Your own personal unsolvable problem. Yes, I can imagine you'd be entertained for quite some time."

It was an unnecessarily harsh comment. John bit his lip, he was such an idiot, why did he-?

"John." He reluctantly glanced back at Sherlock who was leaning fully back over the arm of the sofa, his upside down face glaring at him. "I'm _not_ going anywhere. It doesn't matter how hard you push me."

John chewed on the inside of his cheek, understanding him, embarrassed, apologetic. But all he could do was nodd and look back out the window. Even the trees looked grey today, it wasn't right.

"Plus I thought you'd be in a better mood after last night..." He drawled, turning back to the pages in front of him.

John felt his face grow warm, but atleast Sherlock wasn't avoiding the subject. He thought of something, brow furrowing.

"Do you know what time you came in last night?" He immediately sensed Sherlock was going to make some kind of smutty comment, he wasn't sure how he knew but he _knew_. "Seriously, Sherlock."

He grunted at having his fun spoiled, looking up at John as he left the window and joined him on the other end of the sofa. Sherlock's legs took over the middle part, bent at the knees and toes wiggling into a throw blanket. "Around two AM."

John went to look at his watch but it was back in the bedroom. Sherlock answered him again. "It's half ten now."

He did a bit of mental maths; even taking off the time he and Sherlock were...doing the thing... and taking off the time spent in the bathroom this morning, he was still up in the sleep stakes by around seven hours. A new record.

"Wow, I actually slept alot better... with you last night." Sherlock lowered his book, an eyebrow raised dubiously.

"Sure it wasn't just-"

John cut him off with a small wave of both hands. "No, no. Trust me, it's been a while but that never really helped anyway whether I did it or not-"

"_'A while_'?" He looked at John like he was saying something categorically obvious. "You nearly blew my fingers _off_, John."

There was a minimum one second delay, before an absolutely outrageous bellow of laughter erupted from John, wrecking through him so hard that it actually made his eyes water.

"You're...such a-"

"Brilliant detective? Outstanding human specimen? Great lover?"

John calmed down enough to retort. "One hand job does not a Casanova thee make."

"What, so it wasn't good? How many do I have to give you to qualify?"

"_Sherlock!_" John was fast turning beet red, there was something else they were meant to be taking about, but this was far more distracting. Sherlock gave him an expectant look, John swallowed down some of the laughter, so he really wanted to know?

"You were..." He nodded, reluctant but appreciative, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. "Really...um..." Wow, it was getting warm in here.

"Come on John, _give it up._"

Their eyes locked together at that phrase, Sherlock thoroughly enjoying how flustered John had become, but there was that darker tone to it... the order, the command... There were some things he would clearly never be able to refuse. So his response was suitably fitting.

"You were... _masterful_."

A slow smile. A thumping heart.

He threw the book down.

"Come here."


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you to everyone has supported me so far, wow wow wow- totally unexpected! Please keep sending me your messages, I literally can't get enough of speaking to fellow Johnlockers :) For new peeps, you can find me on Tumblr under thefarfire, please add me I will always follow back!

Um yeah so, longest chapter ever, by a serious amount...um...I honestly don't know how I do these things to myself... I have a problem with boundaries lol. I'm happy anyway! I think the final emotional hurdle as been jumped for these two... Oh and i am a peasant when it comes to other cultures so please dont be offended by anything _ big thank you to Lysa-Bell for helping me with translations- you are a gem :) Enjoy! /end ramble

_EDIT: tightened prose, spellings, grammar- no major changes._

**Chapter 13**

He'd been up for an hour before the daylight finally showed itself over the top of the distant mountains. And still not a single sign of Sherlock, who had disappeared sometime in the very early morning.

John rolled the note in between his fingers, making it into a small tube that grew tighter and thinner with each twist.

_Couldn't sleep. Be back soon._

_-SH_

_P.S Stay in the cottage._

_^Please_

Sherlock had taken the Defender to wherever the Hell he'd gone to, leaving John to make his own entertainment with nothing but a radio with no stations and about twenty books, half of which were in foreign languages. Reference books on the various species of ferns and tree fungus were a little dry for an early morning read in John's opinion. As if he could actually concentrate on a book right now anyway.

John leant against the windowsill in the front room, breath misting in the air, periodically pulling back the nets to look out every time he thought he heard something.

Where the fuck was Sherlock and what in God's name possessed him to take John's mobile phone with him?

Even though he had a distinct and clear memory of leaving it on the side in the kitchen, he'd given his flighty companion the benefit of the doubt. But after going through his bag twice, checking under every piece of furniture and going through all his pockets several times over, he had to admit that the innocent until proven guilty rule was looking a bit over-generous.

_Stay in the cottage_. A 'please' added as an afterthought. He'd have laughed if he wasn't so pissed off. But who was he mad at more? Sherlock for being deliberately sneaky, or himself for pining away like some 1950s housewife?

John put the note down on the windowsill, drumming his fingers on the edge of the wood. Back military straight and bouncing on his heels. Ten more minutes. He had ten more minutes to get the Defender within earshot. He checked his watch, but something else caught his eye.

Small, pinched bruises across two of his fingers. Tilted at the right angle you could see they followed the line of teeth marks. He rubbed a thumb over the marks, pursing his lips together, frown deepening.

They were from the night before last, when Sherlock had come into the bedroom to try and calm him down. John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to close his eyes to the memory of Sherlock's mouth there, whispering against his skin. Thoughts like that were not exactly helpful when he was trying to stay angry. He couldn't wait any longer, he had to get out.

Jogging was not an option, the weather had left most of the clear tracks all muddy, and pebbles and stones weren't exactly going to do his knees any favours. Boots and base layers it was then.

He wasn't sure where to go at first, listening out on the doorstep for the sound of their car returning. But no such luck. The cloudy sky loomed overhead, looking like cracked grey marble. The sun was barely visible in the distance, seeming to pull itself upwards with the same sore effort John used to trek towards the road.

The loch was still, with no breeze to ruffle it, the early morning fog flowing over the far edge like dry ice on a mirror. He pulled his collar up, tucking his chin in, wishing he had the head for hats. Unfortunately they were always either too big or they made him look like an irritated teenager...

The tire tracks were still visible in the gravel and mud, John falling into step with them. The cold stung his cheeks as he marched on, but he stared ahead, blinking against it, scanning the trees where they broke open to the track. Still no sign of Sherlock.

What use could he have for John's mobile? The only thing he could think of was that a message had eventually come through that he didn't want John to see. But why not just delete it and leave it where it was? Maybe someone had been trying to ring him...?

Or maybe he'd just borrowed it and intended to give it back before John noticed it was missing? He snorted derisively. That really wasn't as plausible somehow. He thought back to yesterday when he'd come into the room to see Sherlock putting away his own phone, a split second glimpse at that look on his face before he turned away. The _nothing-to-see-here_ look.

There was no doubt that Sherlock purposely distracted him to drop the subject, which gave John mixed feelings. He wasn't a great detective like him, but he did occasionally manage to catch Sherlock out when he was trying to hide things. There was no getting away from that side of Sherlock- the part that did things to suit his own ends. In the past, John could temper this behaviour to an extent, and it worked... but in his current state it was hard to be the voice of reason. Especially when he was pretty sure Sherlock was doing these things to try and protect him, as misguided as he thought that was. Why couldn't he just _listen_ to John?

"Idiot." He muttered under his breath, sniffing in the cold.

There was a huge difference between protecting someone and outright shielding them. John was willing to accept the former with gritted teeth but he absolutely was not going to stand for the latter. He wasn't a baby, he was a doctor and a soldier, he was the one that took care of people, _not_ the other way around.

Then again maybe that was his problem? If he was honest, he could be just as stubborn as Sherlock, which he knew was a key factor in their arguments.

Maybe he was feeling so mixed up because he was used to just... _giving_ and not taking?

He blinked rapidly, stomach fluttering as a very vivid image of Sherlock pulling him down on the sofa flashed through his mind. He could still feel how his long fingers gripped the back of his neck, legs twisting around each other, Sherlock taking his time for once-

He clenched his fists inside his pockets. The name '_Sherlock_' was fast becoming synonymous with the term '_sensory overload_.'

John focused on the mission at hand as he entered the trees, still following the tyre tracks. To the left, he could see the broad side of the beach through the thin line of trees. He bet that it was glorious in summer, with a vista that seemed more akin to a fantasy film than the UK. You really didn't know what was in your own back yard until you got out there.

He chewed on his bottom lip absently. He was still about fifteen minutes walk from the road, travelling down the slow incline, _almost_ too busy trying to keep his thoughts clear to notice _it_...

The unmistakable feeling of being watched.

John barely paused, pretending to lose his footing slightly to cover his realisation, continuing to walk. The hairs on the back of his neck raised in reaction to the involuntary shiver that crawled over his skin. His eyes widened, and his heart rate jumped up a notch, but otherwise he was relatively calm. This was a feeling he knew, he'd _trained_ for it, this part he understood. He hadn't forgotten it.

Instinct was hard to fight, and right now it was craving the hand gun locked in the glove compartment in their bloody car...

Every twig snap, every drop of dew sliding off the leaves, every faint rustle was a potential threat right then. The trees seemed to lean over him on purpose, branches entwining to blot out the grey light, conspiring to throw him into full shadow... Something was _looming_... something was out there making its presence felt. If he didn't know any better he would have thought-

John pulled his hands out of his pockets, drawing to a halt, pretending to fiddle with the compass on his watch. Listening so hard he wasn't sure if that noise in the distance was actually the sound of a car or just his imagination playing tricks on him.

And that's when he spotted her.

A red doe -no wait- a red _hind_, his mind corrected, mimicking Sherlock's smug voice. She was about twenty yards east of him, further up the slope, peeking past the trees down at him. Another set of large brown eyes and auburn fur then appeared from behind her- another hind, slightly smaller. She picked up on him slower than the first one, her chewing gradually coming to a halt, ears flicking in his direction. He held his breath, the unseen danger momentarily suspended.

This was one of those moments people tried to capture on camera and rarely did. Sure, you ended up with a photo of two deer in the woods, but it was never actually the same as standing there, looking right into the eyes of a wild living thing, seeing a glimpse into their private world amongst the morning mist and damp grey air...

John realised just a split second too late, why they simultaneously turned their heads _away_ from the sound of a car approaching, instead of _towards_ it.

One shot rang out with deafening clarity glancing the smaller hind across her flank, who then bucked into her companion tripping them both into the tree. Another shot shouted over the terrified sound of the forest, as not only the hinds screeched, but the birds in the trees threw themselves into the sky cawing in fear.

He flung himself down, a thin dirt plume puckering up into the air where a bullet hit the ground, narrowly missing him. With his head down, he crawled to the base of the nearest tree, just as one of the hinds crashed into it in its desperate attempt to flee the hunt. Bark and red fur flew over him as she rebounded off, across the track just as the Defender reared its hulking body into sight.

John, with his arms covering his head, might have yelled out as the hind lurched into the safety of the trees further on, but the noise was swallowed up by the squeal of breaks, a final gunshot and Sherlock jamming the horn on repeatedly.

"_Feuer einstellen!_" He bellowed out of the window up into the trees, honking the horn another two times.

The command was repeated back by an unfamiliar voice with an edge of panic, coming in the direction of where the shots were fired. Then all was deathly silent.

John breathed a sign of relief as Sherlock leapt from the car, slamming the door behind him. He practically stamped his rage into the dirt as he came around the front of the car, passing John without _a single_ glance, heading up into the trees.

He sat there for a few seconds, more than a little confused about why he'd been ignored, but he eventually pulled himself up out of the dirt. Then he cautiously stepped out from behind the tree to see what the bloody hell was actually going on.

Sherlock approached what looked to be a very apologetic, and slightly scared, gentleman in camouflage gear who was fast trying to explain himself and his crew. Florescent armbands began to pop into view at various locations further up into the forest, attached to four other men who all made their way down, rifles in tow.

John wiped some of the dirt and cold sweat off the side of his face as Sherlock spoke in rapid German, voice low and unimpressed. He cut quite a sight in his long trench coat, standing up to all five of them. One of them pulled up their camo-face cover, tucking it under his hat, and joined in the discussion, gesturing to John occasionally as they conversed.

John went to join him, slowly moving up the hill but then he stopped. Two men talking, showing Sherlock their papers; another two men both in camo-face paint, muttering over the body of the small hind, rifles uncocked and held safe; and one guy stood in the back looking through the two of them in John's direction. Face cover still down, rifle leant against his shoulder.

He couldn't see if it was on safety from where he was stood.

John was still staring at him, even when Sherlock finished his inspection of the documents and turned away heading back towards the car. Every muscle in his body ached with the effort of trying to appear relaxed. But all he could think of was the shot fired into the dirt where he'd been standing. The scar at his shoulder tingled uncomfortably. How could Sherlock be so unaffected by five guys with rifles staring at his back?

"Get in the car." Sherlock snapped as he passed. John hesitated, but followed him, skin still crawling as he made his way to the passenger side, expecting at any moment for the mysterious fifth member to open fire. He hoped he was just being paranoid, but something felt very wrong, and when it came to loaded weapons, he tended to trust his gut. Closing the door, he was about to open up the glove compartment just in case he needed his gun, but Sherlock kicked the car into gear so fast he was nearly thrown forward, and had to prioritise his seat belt instead.

Sherlock did a two point turn in the track, which forced John to grip on to the handle in the door as they jumped forward, kicking up mud in their wake, hurtling down the track towards the main road. He gritted his teeth, saying nothing.

The weird vibes John had picked up from the rifleman in the forest lingered over him like a storm cloud... he wanted to voice them, but couldn't. There was another argument sitting between him and Sherlock like a brick wall.

John knew Sherlock was mad at him (if he hadn't been, he would have already started talking) but couldn't fathom why. Sherlock's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and still he didn't say anything. John pinched his mouth closed, trying not to sniff from being out in the cold for so long, glaring out of the window at the passing scenery.

It was pretty much inevitable that John would be the one to speak first. After all, Sherlock was more than capable of keeping quiet for days when he was happy working on a case, so his sulking silences were legendary in comparison. Clearly after fifteen minutes of just _nothing_ John had to say something.

"Give me my phone back."

Sherlock let go of the steering wheel with one hand, and reached into his coat pocket pulling out John's mobile. He then threw it into his lap so hard that it bounced off his leg and hit the door. The back of his mobile then unceremoniously popped open on impact, spilling its respective parts into the foot-well.

John stared open mouthed at the pieces, genuinely shocked, before a sardonic smile smoothed on to his face. "Yeah _thanks_, great help there, _Fagin_."

Either Sherlock didn't get the Oliver Twist reference or he just didn't care- anything was possible these days.

"I asked you to stay in the cottage."

John snorted. "Ah, so that's why you've got a stick up your arse- no you didn't _ask_ me. Writing an order and then scribbling a little 'please' in afterwards does not count as asking." He began picking up the pieces of his phone, putting it back together.

"Does it matter? You still didn't do it-"

"Oh yes, that's right, because one fumble in the dark means I actually take orders from you now." He jammed his thumb into the on button.

He saw Sherlock glance at him before putting his eyes back on the road ahead. He told himself that Sherlock deserved it, and for the most part, he believed it too.

"Tell me, was it the 'order' you were actually offended by, or just _me_? Because I still remember those emails to your past conquests, John, and we lived together for a _long_ time... You never seemed to mind when a _woman_ was telling you what to do. In fact, I'd say you rather liked it-"

"_Nice_." John said, smiling grimly through that stinging comment. "Real _nice_. I really missed these heart to hearts-"

Sherlock cut over him. "If you'd done as I said, you wouldn't have been caught up in a deer cull atleast."

So that's what they'd been doing out there...even the fifth rifleman? "Again Sherlock, this is a _prime example _of why you need to tell me these things. Do you honestly think if you'd written '_stay in the cottage because some Germans are thinning out the deer in the forests today_' I would have still thought '_you're not the boss of me, I do what I want_' and gone out anyway?" He shook his head as the Nokia sang its little start-up tune in his hand. "I mean do you even _see_ the difference? Bloody amateurs couldn't even shoot straight- I nearly had my leg shot off-"

Sherlock looked at him so sharply that the car swerved slightly, making John instinctively grab the door with his free hand again.

He twisted his grip on the steeling wheel, brow furrowed in anger. "They shouldn't have been that far north, the trees are too dense, hides too much..."

John thought about the feeling of being watched through the trees, he hadn't felt very hidden then. He'd felt exposed, like being back on the front line. Excitement, fear, _survival_-

"But Germans though? Are there any _actual_ Scottish people around the Highlands?"

Sherlock threw him an exasperated look. "If you had been paying attention when you were talking with Teresa and her husband the other day, you would have remembered them talking about a hunting group coming in from Stuttgart to help with the cull. How can you _not_ remember this? You actually said _'i__sn't that where Porsches come from?'_" John vaguely remembered the conversation but that whole night was a bit of a blur- other parts being much more vivid.

"Yes _alright_, I was a little preoccupied that evening okay?"

But Sherlock continued without comment. "Granted, they were meant to be further south of the cottage. But I made sure they won't be there when we get back. Where were you going anyway?"

This time he purposely ignored the question, scrolling through his messages instead, a little confused. Then he scrolled through his contacts, mouth opening. His pictures - his call records -

"Where the Hell is all my stuff?!" The whole phone was blank.

"I cleared it all."

"You _what?!_"

"If it makes you feel better I had to do mine too."

John looked at him like he was deranged. "If it makes me...? You had FOUR contacts in your phone and one of them was your own bloody phone number! I had about thirty people stored in mine! And what about my photos-?"

"I hardly think a grainy picture of a jar of East India Strawberry and Pepper Jam is going to be a great loss to the world, John. Or that picture of the cat with the miserable face-"

"Pull over."

"John-"

"I said _PULL OVER!_"

Sherlock slammed on the breaks, pulling to the side of the road, turning the car off. He watched silently as John fumbled his seat belt in his attempt to get out of the car, practically kicking the door open, lurching to his feet outside. He didn't bother closing the door this time, just walked off. He expected Sherlock to follow, and he did, John wanted him to.

He looked up at the grey clouds sliding slowly across the hills, shoving his near-useless phone in his pocket, standing at the edge of the empty road. The loch was thinned to a river, with less trees and more open land sending a chilled wind to bite at them with renewed force.

Sherlock approached him, collar up against the wind, stopping a couple of feet from him.

"Spit it out then. What story have you got conjured up for me this time?"

"... I haven't got a story."

John raised an eyebrow, laughing it off sadly. "So it's silence then?" His face hardened, losing his composure. "Do you realise how fucking immature you are? _Dammit_, Sherlock!" He pushed his hands through his own hair, flinging them back out to his sides in frustration. Closed his eyes, counted down from ten.

_10, 9, 8-_

"They were bugged. The phones."

_7, 6, 5-_ "When does your brother _not_ make his presence felt?" Back straight, hands clenched.

He heard Sherlock take in a loud breath, which indicated something else entirely. John abandoned the counting immediately, opened his eyes and looked at him. Tense, faint purple smudges under each eye- he clearly hadn't slept since the night before last. He couldn't help it... his stomach fluttered with concern.

"They weren't from my brother."

John didn't really know how to respond to that, a puzzled look on his face. Only one other thing popped into his mind when he thought about being bugged, his nose crinkled in disgust. "Please tell me we're not part of that bloody newspaper phone-hacking scandal?"

Sherlock actually shrugged. "Not anymore if we were."

"How did you even-?"

"The screen on my phone began to flicker two days ago, and again after Lestrade text me yesterday, so I became suspiscious. I've only had this phone for a month, there was no reason for it to come up with errors so soon. I dismantled and reassembled it last night, then yours for good measure... found a little transmitter in each- not the kind that Mycroft's people use. I went out this morning to go to the nearest supermarket, and bought us new SIM cards. I would have bought brand new phones if they'd had a franchise there but they didn't, so I had to make do. I restored the phones to factory defaults just to be safe." He looked down at the ground before smiling slightly. "I wanted to get back quickly before you got too annoyed with me."

_Don't smile like that_... John thought, catching his eye briefly.

"So we've just got each others numbers?"

"For now yes. I would have done away with the phones entirely if they weren't absolutely necessary out here."

_Absolutely necessary_. John was reminded of that compliment Sherlock had paid him, but now was really not the time for that. He tried not to wring his hands, or rub at his neck, he tried not to feel so...bloody anxious.

And the explanation should have eased his mind, but he just couldn't let it go. In that moment, he thought he understood to a certain extent how Sherlock felt when a clue was eluding him. But he didn't have anyone to bounce ideas off of like he did, because Sherlock was the one doing the eluding.

John suddenly felt very tired, and it probably showed on his face as he spoke because Sherlock reached for him, a hand on his shoulder. "There's something else though, isn't there?" Sherlock had that unreadable expression on again, which was just as damning as if he'd said 'yes' outright. "Something you're not telling me. You think I shouldn't know about it because I'm still... " _Useless? Pathetic? Stupid?_ "... Not well."

"John, there is nothing wrong with you." Sherlock whispered, squeezing his shoulder for reinforcement. "There are some minor things I'm taking care of, yes, but I don't need to bother you with them...it's all speculation-"

"To do with the bugs?" John tried to think about the private conversations and texts he'd made and received in the last month. It was actually a surprisingly short list if memory served correctly. He hadn't exactly been living the high life. He let Sherlock's hand fall away, trudging back over to the car. Heard his footsteps follow him.

"Possibly." Sherlock said, ducking in front of him with an arm out against the car, stopping him from getting back in. "Just let me handle things for now, if anything comes up, you'll be the first to know."

John looked at him dubiously, he didn't think even Sherlock believed that last bit. "...What did Lestrade's text say?"

Sherlock paused a second too long before answering. "He said he hoped we were enjoying our holiday." John could see in his face what he was about to say, and wished he _wouldn't._ "You still don't trust me?"

"It's not that... You just don't make it easy for me. With everything going on... Between us..."

Sherlock's eyes flickered over him picking up all the obvious messages John was showing and reading most of the hidden ones. John felt himself go cold on the inside when Sherlock straightened, his mouth opening in restrained disbelief, looking a little, well, _wounded_. His hands fell to his sides, looking away and then back at John who just wanted the ground to swallow him up then and there.

"I'm not... _using _you..." Sherlock said the words like they left a sour taste in his mouth, trying to hide the hurt with a haughty expression, wanting to shame John for even thinking it. He balked under the weight of that glare, John _was_ shamed by it, even though the thought had been fleeting and based on nothing. "You _know_ how I feel about you." He spat accusingly, shoving past him to go round the back of the car.

John grabbed at his arm, wanting to stop him physically because he couldn't say the words to do it. John had been so busy worrying about what the truth was for everything else, that he was stepping all over the one truth that Sherlock was actually trying to convince him of: the one that was bigger than _those_ three little words.

Sherlock knocked back his hand but John persisted, grabbing at his shoulder instead. Sherlock turned to the right, doubling back into John so quickly that he actually gave a little surprised gasp, but he side stepped before Sherlock could get a hold of him. Suddenly, the mood shifted drastically from _shakey-at-best_ to _I'm-going-to-beat-the-stupid-out-of-you._

Sherlock managed to catch a hold of John by the back of his coat, dragging him backwards- to do what with John didn't know, he simply reacted automatically, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs as hard as he could, shame dissolving into anger and pent up frustration. He heard him grunt in pain, both of them falling into the open door.

John pushed away from him, making a break for it before he did something really stupid like punch him in his perfect nose, but Sherlock was clearly up for tempting fate, latching on to the back of John's coat collar. John felt the yank to the side, just as Sherlock tripped him with one lithe leg between his, shoving him into the side of the Defender so hard that it rocked on its wheels.

John swore loudly as he felt those fingers wind roughly into his hair, forcing the side of his face to the glass as his right arm was yanked up hard behind his back.

"Do you yield?" Sherlock growled.

"What?! Who says that?!_ No one_ says tha-!" John winced as Sherlock twisted his grip in his hair, mouth clamping shut with the unexpected pain. He could feel the heat of Sherlock pressed up against him, skin tingling where his breath swept over the back of his neck. This was- _oh God_ - no he wasn't _actually_-

"Do you _yield?!_"

John's cheeks flushed with colour, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold. Much to his undying embarrassment he was without a doubt fired up and incredibly turned on. At least, his body was- his mouth hadn't quite caught the memo.

"_Piss off!_ I was trying to apologise, but you can _forget it_ now!" He kicked back with one heel, hoping to connect fully - _how dare you make me feel like this you little shit _- but he merely glanced Sherlock's shin. He still gave a yelp, and momentarily lost his grip on John giving him just enough time to pull his arm free, and twist back around.

John actually punched at him then, but Sherlock did one of his Judo moves, deflecting the force of it, causing John to fall forward so sharply that only Sherlock's hold prevented him from nosediving into the ground. He grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, looking up ready to scream obscenities, knock him out if he had to... But stopped short.

What deal had Sherlock made in a past life that meant he looked better for the scuffle? With his dishevelled hair, piercing eyes and teeth slightly bared. John was in the wrong and he knew it. He'd offended him, upset him, by doubting his feelings. Didn't he know Sherlock well enough after the events of the last few days? Shouldn't the trust be stronger by now?

John sucked a breath in, frozen with his own guilt at letting things get out of control again. He had to _stop_ doing this. It didn't need to be this tough. He had to stop fighting Sherlock and fight his depression instead. Just swallow down the paranoia and low self esteem and _get on with it_. Sherlock believed he could do it, so he would. It was simple.

And yet he was terrified.

He'd just never wanted someone like this before.

He'd never really _needed_ someone like this before.

An anxious bite of his bottom lip and they were suddenly all eye-contact and desperate hands, pulling at each other. John's brow furrowed, wanting to say a thousand things at once, mainly apologies, but talking was right at the bottom of his list of priorities.

He needn't have worried though- Sherlock's gaze was stripped of the anger but none of the _heat_ as John raised his arms slightly, letting him wind his own around him, pushing them both back up against the car.

John sought his mouth first this time, hands grasping the base of his head, the soft skin at his neck, pulling him down. A little purr of pleasure against his lips. It didn't matter that John hadn't shaved that morning, or that his hair was weird, because Sherlock _didn't_ care, because Sherlock _liked it _when he looked a little wild, because Sherlock-

John gave a little grunt of displeasure as he drew back, but it was only so Sherlock could rip open the Velcro on John's coat, the zipper squealing as he whipped it down with startling speed. He let the man tug up one jumper, a t-shirt _and_ his thermal base layer with a look on Sherlock's face that was akin to the frustration and excitement a child got when receiving a present with more than one layer of wrapping. It would have been adorable if the intent wasn't so sexualised.

John hissed through his teeth at the cold rush of air hitting his stomach, but was soon distracted by the weight of Sherlock pressing up against him again. He squirmed, almost ticklish, as freezing cold fingers kneaded into his hips and around, slipping into the waistband at the back of his jeans. Sherlock smiled into a stolen kiss that bruised John's lips with the intensity- giddy, he was actually _giddy_ over this brilliant man who was a fool to leave and a bigger fool to come back.

Because there was no two ways about it. This wasn't an easy love. This would _never_ be an easy love. But it had to be the strongest he'd ever known. The most tortured, the most dangerous, the most... inevitable.

_Look at what you've started._

John slipped his hands under his coat, then under the back of Sherlock's shirt, buttons straining at the front as he felt up across the lines of his lower back- muscles tensing at the freezing touch. They were stealing each other's warmth, bumping hips, kissing hard, gasping between tongue strokes, because that's what you did when you were upset for all the wrong reasons and aroused for all the right ones.

It was barely nine in the morning and they were at the edge of the world, John giving into the rolling desire that Sherlock had hidden from him for so long... This was brilliant, this was _right_, this was exciting- a new adventure - he needed this, this he could _do_-

They were so busy making out up against the side of the car that the blaring horn of a passing truck actually made John jump, almost bashing noses. Sherlock laughed, and John cracked an apologetic smile, their foreheads touching, the magic not completely broken but simply jarred.

John swallowed, heart still bouncing around his chest, not yet calm. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of the taste of him. Sherlock leant back a little, pulling down all of those annoying layers over John one by one with a consideration that was clearly deliberate.

Because he hadn't realised until then that, _yes_, Sherlock was probably as nervous as him in a way- he didn't do the relationship thing. He'd admitted that he'd never been good at it on their date, and had thrown himself into his passion instead- work.

John wondered then, seeing Sherlock purse his red lips together, what had happened to Sherlock before they met? Had someone hurt him, made him jaded? Did he get bored, or was it just...not right? Was it a man or a woman that did it? Did it matter?

Of all the people Sherlock Holmes could have had, in all the new lives he could have made for himself, here he actually was. Stood in front of a touchy, near-grey-haired grump carrying a veritable shit ton of baggage. Of all the people he wanted to try to 'be good with'... he'd picked him. John.

Then and there, he prayed to be struck down by a lightning bolt if he ever forgot how amazing that felt.

"Alright?" Sherlock whispered, curiously. Stepping back properly then, hands lingering on both sides of John's coat, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

John nodded, trying to get his breath back, trying to think of really mundane and unattractive things to redirect the blood further north of his groin, back to his brain and other vital organs. "...Yeah...I'm alright."

"Need a minute?" Sherlock gave him an innocent look, nonchalantly thumbing the corner of his mouth.

"So do you." John's eyes flicked down and Sherlock laughed.

"It's all in the tailoring." He smirked, and John really blushed then, the sharp breeze sobering him up enough to say what he had to.

"We're really doing this?" He needed reassurance, he needed it direct, clear and without room for misinterpretation.

"Doing what?" As helpful as ever. John rolled his eyes. _Give me strength._

"_This_. This, _all this_." He gestured wildly between the two of them with one hand. "Us."

Sherlock looked to the side with a slightly bemused face, eyes narrowing, mouth puckering slowly as he formed his words. "Do you mean...sex?"

A nervous laugh burst out of his mouth so hard he actually covered it with one hand, before raising it out in front to emphasise. "_No_, Sherlock - well, _yes_, I mean, not right now obviously-" John saw his eyebrows shoot up, and suddenly felt like he was going to implode with the shyness that overcame him. "Oh God I- actually, uh, yes, I mean that's what happens- that's what people _do_- when they, well, you know-" He gestured again, swallowing hard. He was seventeen again, a totally stammering virgin. Oh good lord. "_Theyhavesex_."

"Yes, John, I really see those years of medical training have not been wasted on you-"

"Shut up, Sherlock, I mean this is serious isn't it? We're not _just_ dating, and this isn't _just_ a holiday. So what are we going to do?"

Sherlock went to open his mouth again and John immediately cut him off, sensing what he was about to say. "Other than the..." he mumbled the next part, suddenly not knowing where to look. "The sex thing... please concentrate-"

"Define the question then!"

"Alright fine!" John gathered his thoughts, a flick of his tongue across his lower lip, focusing on a legitimate question. "Well to start, when we go back, how are you going to introduce me to people?" He'd spent so long correcting everyone, it was going to be a bit of an adjustment.

"You really are quite precious about titles and labels, you know." John shot him a harassed _please-answer-me_ look, which he had no choice but to give into with a sigh.

Sherlock turned to the right.

"'Ah, Sherlock Holmes I presume?'"

He turned to the left.

"'Correct. Allow me to introduce my partner Dr John Watson.'"

Sherlock turned back to him with a flourish of his hands. "Not complicated."

John pouted, a sideways glance, rubbing the back of his neck. Sherlock had kind of missed the point. "Right. Ofcourse."

He really envied Sherlock's ability to remain unflustered, it was verging on unnatural, but perhaps it appeared exaggerated because he was Mr Nervous Wreck. Sherlock's face cooled, becoming very matter-of-fact. "I really don't care what other people think John. But I do care about what _you_ think. This is more difficult for you, so I'm happy to go along with whatever you decide."

It wasn't _what_ he said, but the _way_ he said it that got to John. "Wait a second... You don't think...? _No_..." Sherlock's gaze flickered, unsure. John felt that stab of guilt again. "What? That I'm _embarrassed_ of you?"

Sherlock stuck his chin out defiantly, looking away. Trying to be brave perhaps? "It's understandable-"

John's thoughts exploded out before he could stop himself. "No it bloody _is not!_ If anything it should be the other way around. Any one would be lucky to have you, and if anyone says otherwise-" John was caught off guard with the truly surprised expression that softened Sherlock's face. John stammered, brow creasing up, scratching the edge of his jaw with a cough. That little outburst certainly showed his protective side. He finished quietly but with confidence. "Well, they'll just have me to deal with won't they?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, still staring at him. Slightly relieved looking.

John cracked a smile, laughing lightly but easily. "It's going to be... a little awkward when Harry finds out I've joined _the dark side_ but I'll - well, _we'll_ - cope just fine. And it's not like we have to worry about your brother finding out or anything-"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "I could care less about Mycroft. You do know I haven't 'turned' you- I'm not going to suddenly drag you off to some sweaty nightclub in arseless chaps-"

John scrunched his nose in mock-disappointment. "Ah that's a shame-"

"You're my partner, my boyfriend, just..._mine_... and that's the end of it. Nothing else has changed."

The way his voice dipped slightly when he said 'mine' absolutely did it for John, it tugged at the part of him that was irrevocably tied to Sherlock no matter what the end to this would be. Maybe there would be no end. Maybe they would just grow old together. It was possible.

"You're doing The Face again."

"Ofcourse I am you idiot, you just called me your boyfriend."

"I prefer 'partner' personally, I mean neither if us are _boys_ and we're more than _friends_-"

"Can you not ruin this moment for me please? I'm enjoying myself-"

"Good well you can continue to enjoy yourself in the comfort of the car before you die of exposure- oh no _wait_ you _won't,_ because you have _a_ _thousand layers of clothing on!_" Sherlock darted to the side and actually slapped John on his arse, jogging off around the back of the car with a grin on his face.

John wasn't sure which surprised him more, the exaggeration in the tease, or the playful spank on the behind. Either way the smile was still on his face when he slid into the seat, buckling his belt, the sound of the engine roaring into life.

"Breakfast?" Sherlock tried to restrain the hopefulness in his voice -and therefore the _concern_- and John pretended he didn't notice it.

"Ooo yeah go on, early morning gunfire and making out always leaves me ravenous. My treat."

Sherlock found the comment very amusing, unable to contain his laughter. A warm look between them. "Great. We'll drop in at The Thistle and Twine, they won't be open until tonight but I know the owner, he makes a fantastic omelette."

Sherlock was notoriously difficult to please in the food department, so how he knew that John couldn't guess, but he didn't question it.

"Plus, there's something I've wanted to show you for a long time."

"Oh?" John caught his eye in the wing mirror, not sure how to take that comment.

"John Watson get your mind out of the gutter, I'm being perfectly serious." John grinned, leaning his elbow up at the window, chin resting on his hand. The panic and worry from this morning was beaten back, already on its way to being forgotten. "You're going to love it. You're going to do that thing, that _gooey_ thing you do."

"Again with the gooey thing- I do not go _gooey_- do I get a clue?"

"No."

"Oh go on."

"No, it would be too easy-"

"_Sherlock_-"

"I can say no all day, John."

"You're a complete bastard has anyone ever told you that?"

"And not meant it? Never."

John wasn't going to win this one, but he didn't really want to anyway. He was abruptly hit by a wave of contentment, sitting there, head supported in one hand and turned to Sherlock. He'd missed the easy banter between them, trying to get the best 'last word' in over the other, seeing who would concede first.

There was going to be more of this, lots more, and for the first time in months it felt as if the pressure had finally been lifted off him, atleast for now. He'd forgotten what it was like to feel normal again... John sighed, and this time it was somewhere dangerously close to happy.

"Seriously though, just _one_ clue-"

"_No!_"


	14. Chapter 14

WARNINGS: This chapter contains scenes of a sexual nature. Remember the scale from chapter 12? I'd say you're looking at an 8... And yes I am just as surprised as you ppl are, it came out of nowhere! [snigger]

Also, I take ALOT of liberty with back-stories. If you spot any glaring mistakes though, please be kind and let me know (nicely! I'm a DELICATE FLOWA). Thank you so much for the support! My love to you all.

**Chapter 14**

No one would have have guessed that they'd been at each others throats that morning, as they drove through the countryside after lunch, smiling and laughing, heading away from the town they'd stopped in for food, back out into the deep countryside.

It was nearly one in the afternoon when they eventually pulled up outside an old industrial-looking building semi-buried in a hillside, surrounded by trees. No name. No signage.

John peered out through the window, pushing a packet of shortbread into his jacket pocket with one hand, licking the sugar off the fingers of the other. Sherlock hopped out as an older, densely bearded man opened the door. If he hadn't been wearing khaki jeans, a black vest top and a scowl that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns, John would have put him as a dead ringer for Santa Claus.

He definitely wasn't as happy as good old St Nicholas was usually depicted though, that was for sure. The man started yelling and waving his hands as Sherlock approached, casually walking up the stairs to the doorway. John meanwhile, reached into the glove box, surreptitiously pulling out and checking his gun, tucking it inside his jacket. No way was he leaving that behind with the car unlocked there.

He climbed out of the Defender, half jogging to catch up to him. Eyebrows raising as the bearded Scotsman seemed to have descended into angry indecipherable mutterings, heading into the building. John looked at Sherlock questioningly but he waved a hand in a dismissive manner, dragging John inside by the elbow.

The old man was already half way down the end of the long and dingy hall that stretched out before them, gesturing back with what could have been a signal to hurry up or to fuck off, John wasn't sure.

Either way, Sherlock was beside himself with determination, stalking after the old man, semi-dragging John with him.

"Alright, alright, I _can_ walk-" John said, with a snicker, gently pushing away the taller man's grip. Sherlock was actually very amusing when he was overexcited about things, and this thing... this thing was for John. He was actually so secretly chuffed with this that he almost overlooked his surroundings.

The walls were lined with shut doors and framed photos. Military ones. John slowed to look at one of the tiny gold plaques underneath, a photograph of one of the original Scottish battalions before they'd joined with the British Army.

"Hurry up you daft bastard!" Or rather '_urry oop ye daf bassard!_' echoed down the corridor. Sherlock stood in silhouette at the end of the hallway, folding a wad of notes into the old mans hand.

John swallowed... It still caught him out at random, always with a Sherlock visual...the way his stomach felt like it was dropping out of him. Like for a split second, he was back in the hallway at Scotland Yard and Sherlock was stood behind the glass again...

But that was over now.

A slow smile started to spread on John's face as he caught up. And it got wider as he followed both of them down a nondescript stairwell, lit with fluorescent tube lights on the walls. He would recognize that smell anywhere. He would recognize those faint popping noises anywhere.

"McGrath!" John actually flinched at the sound reverberating off the walls, as they entered a new corridor. God, the man could bellow. The popping noise stopped, a brief pause, and a door opened. A fair-haired man with a red baseball cap on backwards, poked his head around the doorway.

"What?"

"Times up- fuck off. His majesty bought you out." The old man waved the money and McGrath gestured to someone inside the room.

John crossed his arms, one hand covering the smirk on his face at the royalty reference for Sherlock- who was as ever, oblivious to the slight. It was like he turned his ears off or something. What was it with the Holmes Brothers? King and Queen references followed them wherever they went. Granted Sherlock had started the one about Mycroft but... John couldn't wipe the smile off his face thinking about it.

"I can't believe you did this..." John whispered to Sherlock as they moved aside to let three guys with gun bags pass them, following the old man back upstairs.

Sherlock did that usually annoying little look down his nose at John. Funny how he didn't mind it so much today. "I can do nice things." He said stuffily. An act.

"How much did you give him?"

"For what? The range or the guns?"

"Guns? _Plural?_" John couldn't hide his eagerness as they headed into the room, slipping ahead of Sherlock as he closed the heavy door behind them. "I haven't been shooting in..." His memory clearly wasn't as good as it used to be. "What over a year?"

"You didn't practice whilst I was away?"

_'Away.'_ No he bloody didn't.

"So. Guns you said?" _Expertly avoided there John,_ he thought sarcastically.

Sherlock threw him a key. "Number 12." He pointed to the far wall, lined with lockers and two tables that were scuffed, no doubt by hundreds of weapons being loaded, dismantled and dropped on top of them over time. To the right were five bays and windows stretching out into the huge underground shooting range. Protective earmuffs and goggles hanging off every partition.

John was like the proverbial kid in a candy store, whipping open the locker door with an audible sigh on seeing the contents. You always look at the biggest ones first, save the gems until last.

"_Oh_ look at that..." He pulled out a military grade cadet rifle off the rack inside the locker. "This brings back memories." It didn't have the straps but it still fit him like a glove. He pointed it down at the ground, unconsciously away from Sherlock who still stood in the middle of the room, watching him.

He automatically did the standard drill check on the rifle, brow creasing, realization dawning. This wasn't a converted rifle. "Sherlock, this is a_ real_ SA80." He checked again. "The serial number's been ground off though."

"It's alright, just wipe your prints off at the end if you're bothered."

"I'm not as bothered as I should be..." He breathed. Resting it on one of the tables, he pulled out his hand gun laying it down next to it, shrugging out of his coat and throwing it to the back. Picking the rifle back up, he strode over to the middle bay, looking down the line of it. "Poor thing's had a time of it though... someone's been dragging it about using the rear sight."

"What, that handle shaped bit?"

"You know bloody well that is not a handle." John looked over his shoulder, and Sherlock mouthed one word back at him.

_Gooey._

John's face softened, more than a little touched by this whole development. "Only _you_ would find an old military bunker hidden in the middle of nowhere, with an indoor gun range suitable for firing one of these in."

Sherlock strode over to the tables, shrugging off his coat, folding it up into a pile. "I knew you'd had it drilled into you," he started, crossing his arms, jumping to a different line of thought. "To be left handed and yet fire with your right."

"Majority of people are right handed... military service is nothing if not conformist."

Sherlock walked over to him, picking up a pair of earmuffs on the way. "Did you miss it?" He felt Sherlock slip them over his head, very aware of how close two of the most dangerous things in his life were to him in that moment. Weaponry and a Consulting Detective. All John could do was nod slowly, unable to put it into the appropriate words.

"Bet you can't hit the bulls-"

Safety off, repetition on, ready, _aim_- Sherlock just managed to cover his ears with his hands as John let off one shot without even blinking. The noise was disproportionate to the size of the hole it made in the target, a muffled _whump_ sound reverberating after the shot rang out. John clicked the rifle back into safety, casually hitting the retrieve button on the partition. The target sped towards them on the wire.

John clicked his tongue, quirking an eyebrow, as Sherlock pulled it off the clip. "Told you the sight was off." Even so, it hadn't weakened the rush of endorphins that squeezing the trigger had caused.

"You corrected for it though."

"What?" He pulled back one side of the ear protectors, so he could hear him properly.

"You hit the bullseye."

"Well, _yeeeah_, but it's off by what... three mil?"

"Two mil."

John tried not to smile at look on his face, and ended up chewing on his bottom lip to contain it. He wish that bloody photographer was here to capture _that look_ for posterity- the one of grudging admiration.

"I just don't understand how a man with such a keen marksman's eye can _completely miss_ every single relevant detail when we're on a case-" Shame the admiration didn't extend to his mouth ofcourse.

"Jealous. So, so, _terribly_ jealous-"

"Piss off. Best out of three."

"Earmuffs on then, before I deafen you with my skills."

The next three hours followed in much the same manner. Sherlock setting up increasingly more difficult targets, actually vaulting the partition at one point to run all the way down the range to rig them up on different levels. He tried to catch John out by yelling different target numbers in random orders, "three bullseye, five outside, one inner" or maybe it was to build his confidence...he didn't know. He didn't question it. They were having fun for once. Something he never thought they'd be able to do again.

Several hand guns, another two rifles- both he'd only ever seen pictures of- both_ very_ exciting... Alot of concentration going into following Sherlock around the room, making sure all guns were set on safety, making sure he never crossed paths when John was ready to fire. And _alot_ of banter, and memories... so much of '_we should have done this ages ago_' and '_okay fine, this was one of your better ideas_.'

And laughter.

Laughing until his sides hurt, and his eyes watered. Sherlock giggling like an absolute girl, so self-amused, so alive again. '_Hand me that box of cartridges_,' '_let me see that target_,' and 'n_oooo, you don't hold it like _that_, you hold it like _this.'

Any excuse for a touch and a look. So much of the old, and alot of the new them. Partners. _Boyfriends._

And then, randomly, Sherlock surprised him again.

"Why a soldier?"

John looked up from polishing his Browning hand gun with a dark rag found in the bottom of locker 12. "You've never asked me that before."

"You've never told me that before."

Sherlock's legs were on the floor in parallel with his own. He was folding one of the target sheets into an airplane. Again. The room was littered with them.

John was quiet when he responded, going back to polish a non-existent smudge on the barrel. "I didn't think it was something you'd be interested in."

"...But things are different now aren't they?"

"You don't have to pretend for me, if you think that's what we _should_ be doing-"

"It's alright if you don't want to tell me-"

John put a hand up to stop him. And he actually stopped. "I do though._ I do_." He let his hand fall, thumbing the rag. "I have for a long time. I've always wanted to tell you alot of things without you _plucking_ them out of me first..."

Sherlock actually seemed a bit bashful, but still tried again. "So, who convinced you to join the military then?"

"I convinced me." John smiled because he hadn't been expecting that answer. "I sort of fell into it accidentally, and loved it... It happened during one of Harry's many rebellions against our mother. When she was a teen she joined the local army cadet force. 'No I will not learn to sew dresses, I will cut my hair short and wear fatigues.' And she did."

"You sound...envious?" This confused him.

"A bit... Harry is and always will be out for _herself_. She always seemed to get her own way. She had a freedom that I..." He didn't need to finish that sentence for him to understand. "She only really joined to make a point of it, that she _could_ do it, and would too, even if our parents didn't agree with it. Well, our father could have cared less, but anyway, there it was. I mean they only started letting girls into the ACF in '82 so it was like a red rag to a bull she had to do it. I just took to it so much better than she did."

"You...admired her."

The past tense wasn't lost on him. Sherlock new the facts about the history with his sister, her drinking problems, the divorce which he didn't approve of... but he could really only guess why it had hurt so much. Because they'd been close once. A long time ago. "Well, she didn't take shit from any one, she defended me alot-"

Sherlock tensed, and John knew why instantly, shaking his head.

"No, no, don't worry. Nothing as dramatic as that. A few beatings would have given me something to actually complain about." He leant his head back against the partition, remembering. "No... My parents loved each other, they just weren't cut out to raise children I think. Too selfish really. When there were arguments, I'd clam up. Harry would say the things I couldn't to him..." The arguments, the important ones, had always been with_ him_. He turned the gun over in his hands. "But the silences..." John blinked, coming back to reality. "That's why I was used to the quiet you know. I was used to being on my own."

Sherlock seemed to find it hard to look at him, frowning as the airplane he threw did a somersault straight into the floor. "When I picture you as a child, I see you as one of the popular ones, with lots of other snotty kids -"

"No... really I _wasn't_. Snotty-" a small smile from him, "or popular. Not by a long shot. I was very shy. _Painfully_ quiet." John smiled in embarrassment, his nose crinkling. "The cadets brought it out of me a bit but not until the later years. College was the making of me really. I pretty much spent half of my life as this short, gangly awkward thing. Were you the same as a child?"

"We were all short, gangly and awkward at one point or another."

John sniggered. "I meant-"

"I was... a _nightmare_."

"Exactly the same then."

"I had so much energy."

"You still do."

"I'd like to think I'm not quite as destructive as I was at a child."

"Err, need I remind you of the smiley face?"

Sherlock picked at the edge of a fresh target sheet, peeling the gloss off of the corner, thinking. "I drove my mother spare. Mycroft... well he was good at keeping my attention for a while. But the age difference was a bit rocky. Seven years. Even as a child he was annoyingly self-contained. I had to learn..." He stopped picking, going very still. "I still remember when it happened."

"'It?'"

"Yes, the moment I discovered I was _different._" Sherlock smiled bitterly, and John held his breath, not wanting to put him off from continuing. The surprising part was, he actually _did_ continue. "I'd been saying and doing things far beyond my expected level from the moment I could talk, but this memory is the first time I really felt it. The self awareness...

"It started quite innocently enough, as most things go. I was stood in the doorway of the dining room in our house, and the whole dinner party, ten extra faces, were staring right at me. My father had made an unkind remark about my mother in front of everyone, and I'd been eavesdropping in the hallway, so I overheard it. The men laughed, and the women tittered, but I didn't hear one sound out of my mother. Not_ one_ sound." Sherlock got to his feet and John practically scrambled up after him, captivated by the possibility of a fully told childhood story from his youth. They were so few and far between, he couldn't hide his interest. Was that twisted? The memories clearly weren't happy ones. But Sherlock never really gave much away.

"I had a very bad temper, as I'm sure you can imagine. Too much going on in a head so young. And he was my father _yes_, but she was my_ mother_ - you see?" Sherlock leant forward, putting both hands on the partition, jaw tight, remembering. "I walked in, looked right at him, took a deep breath and said to the room: 'you wouldn't be laughing if you knew what he did to your wives.'"

John's heart sank for him. "Oh, Sherlock..."

"I think perhaps that's where the ego comes from. Only an egomaniac of the highest order would be arrogant enough to hold a dinner party with his unwitting lovers, their husbands and his own wife." John reached out to him, but barely skirted his jacket before deciding against it, lest he break the spell. He settled next to him instead, facing the opposite way. "The funny thing was, right up until the words came out, I thought I was guessing. I was just trying to embarrass him. Like he'd embarrassed her."

"...But you'd deduced it."

"I'd seen him greet them when they arrived, the body language, the fleeting looks. _Touches._ The way they tittered at my mother's expense. It just popped into my head and I was compelled to come out with it. The women turned red-faced and saw each others reactions. _Horrified._ The husbands cottoned on quite quickly after that. "

"When was this?"

"I was five years old."

"_Five?!_ Jesus Sherlock, that's... terrible."

"Is it?" Sherlock's expression was blank again, his voice quieter, more removed.

"Ofcourse it is. You should have been playing in the mud or something not discovering your father was a... a serial adulterer. What did your mother say? What happened after that?"

"She didn't say anything. She just calmly got up from the table whilst everyone erupted into a frenzy. She walked right up to me, slapped me across the back of my legs and hoisted me off to bed. Crying. I think we both were." Sherlock turned so he was facing the same way as John, both of them leaning on the partition, arms touching. John didn't pull away.

"It was a long time before I worked out that by shaming him, even though he was beyond wrong... I'd also inadvertently shamed her. You know, aired the dirty laundry and all that... But it just fell out. I'd just been so _angry_." He clenched his fist. "It was the last straw. And the only thing it taught me was that the truth hurts, so why delay it? Whip it off like a plaster. _Get it over with_."

He let the silence linger for a little while, trying to be considerate, before asking further, "What happened to your father? Didn't they go mental? I would have."

"Hm? Oh right, yes, nearly killed him actually." John was aghast, but Sherlock sounded like he was talking about the weather. "Police were called and everything. About eight weeks in hospital and mother filed for divorce shortly after he was released. Made a pretty penny out of it. Violated the pre-nup. Still living off it probably. Somewhere."

"'Somewhere?'"

"So what did your parents say when you said you were enlisting?"

John's grip tightened around the gun in his hand, held free of the pistol grip. He sighed at the change in subject, but he wasn't going to push it. "...My mother was_ livid_. She actually said 'what was the point of all the years in medical school if I was just going to go and get myself killed?'"

"Well...what was the point?"

"I've been asking myself the same question for a while."

"Curious."

"What is?"

"_You_." Sherlock locked eyes with him, fingers playing with a loose thread on John's jumper. "A man caught between two worlds. The killer and the healer." Sherlock's hand lowered, skirting the top of his thigh. How many times had Sherlock brushed past him like that before? Not so innocent now. "If it had been the other way around, if you'd joined the military life and seen action and then became a doctor, I could understand it. Some kind of atonement... But you were definitely a medicine man before you seriously considered becoming a military one. All the blood and guts in the ward not enough for you?" A smile, also very less than innocent.

John took a second to find his voice, a faint shiver passing down his spine. Atleast Sherlock was asking this time. "I guess I've always been...a thrill seeker at heart. Drawn to danger. When I was shot... it changed me, but not the way it _should_ have. Sometimes...I don't understand myself." He couldn't help but feel a little shamefaced by the statement, but they were being honest and if one person was going to understand it was Sherlock. "You know when you become a doctor you don't legally have to swear on the Hippocratic Oath. You don't _actually_ have to promise to 'do no harm.'" He moved away, a brief glance over his shoulder. Sherlock followed him with his eyes. "And you know how I hate hypocrites..."

He placed his gun and the rag on the table. He'd not thought about these things for a long time. It felt like he was literally blowing the dust off his memories, a small frown on his face. "My father... Well he was cold. Clinical. Restrained."

"Man after my own heart-"

"You couldn't be more _wrong_ about that." The words came out a bit more forcefully than he'd intended, but he had to draw the line at comparisons with his father. Sherlock was nothing like him. "You feel things. You just choose to set it aside... I don't think my father ever felt much about anything. The only one he cared about was my mother, but he treated everyone else, even Harry and me, with this... _total_ disinterest. It's a really weird feeling to grow up feeling like an 'inconvenience.' Couldn't even play the broken condom card- we were both planned. I honestly don't know why they bothered having us. What were they hoping to get? What was... _lacking?_"

Sherlock started to walk over to him, practically sauntering, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The florescent lights overhead highlighted the edge of his collarbone peeking out from under his shirt. It did weird things to John's heart rate. "...Why a doctor though?"

"Oh come on... you know this one. You can say it." John looked at him straight in the eyes. "I don't mind."

Sherlock took a breath, a little sad. "...Everyone listens to the doctor."

He nodded, folding his arms, an unconsciously defensive movement. "You don't need to yell or make a fuss. When you know something important... people come to you." He hadn't quite realized how pathetic it sounded until he heard it out loud. He snorted derisively, clenching his arms. "When I told him I was being shipped out. He didn't say _anything_. Just looked at me... Completely blank. Went back to reading the paper. But I didn't care." He stuck a hand out, drawing an invisible line in the air. "I still don't. I think we were both glad to see the back of each other. It was certainly the last time I saw him. Died of a stroke four months into my first tour."

He saw Sherlock open his mouth, and preempted the question. "No I didn't ask for compassionate leave. I already had my eyes on a promotion, and I was _damned_ if he was going to spoil my chances. He'd never come to any events in my life, why would I bother going to see him in his last one?" He should have been more angry about it, should have had more to say about the 'trust issues' Ella was always bleating on about. But he didn't want to talk about it anymore. It reminded him of too many other things. "And, well, that leads to the story of how I fell out with my mother. But that one still stings a bit though...so best not..."

John could see that Sherlock clearly wanted to ask him more about it, he was surprisingly eager to learn things about John now. The separation had clearly marked him more permanently than he'd let on.

But now John had a question. "Was it as hard as you thought it would be?"

"What?"

"Talking about the past. You erase alot but those memories stayed."

"I've learnt that you can't erase the bits that made you who you are. The foundations."

He couldn't help himself, he reached for Sherlock, hand just touching his sleeve, voice low. "Did you cut off relationships because you were worried about turning into your father?"

"Did your father listen to you when you told him he was ill?" Sherlock shot back sharply.

John shouldn't have said it, it had been a 50/50 chance and unfortunately he'd hit a nerve, so it was only fair to expect that knee-jerk reaction. But it still hurt having that comment thrown back at him. He pulled back as if physically scalded.

Sherlock's mouth slackened, clearly surprised even if he wasn't. "John I-"

"No worries, I overstepped, I'm sorry... Want some shortbread?" He reached into his coat pocket on the table, and held out the packet to him. Sherlock practically ripped a piece out of it, shoving the treat into his mouth with a grimace. It was far too rich for him, and he could have just refused, but this was Sherlock acknowledging the mistake. Trying to be nice. He was _trying._ And so could John. "No he didn't listen to me. He liked the drink too much." He tossed the packet back on to the table. "And you are not going to turn into your father."

John didn't expect him to respond, but it was just the shortbread that delayed him. "It's not my father I'm worried about becoming..." John held his breath as Sherlock dusted the sugar off of his fingers. "All the brains in the world couldn't protect her from falling for_ him._" It was barely a whisper, and it made the hairs stand up on the back of John's neck. "I don't like being _powerless,_ John."

It was more a warning than a statement.

John licked the corner of his mouth, eyes dipping down across Sherlock, all the way down to the ground before turning away. Heat prickled across his cheeks. "I've _never_ cheated on anyone in my life. I don't intend to start now." There was silence, a weighted pause between them, before John heard him move closer, could practically feel the heat coming off him. He stood rooted to the spot as Sherlock's jacket flew past him on to the table, joining the coats and his gun.

Hands nudged at his elbows and John hesitated, still staring ahead at the wall. He was stunned by how quickly the atmosphere had shifted again. Would he ever be able to predict it? What was he up to? John didn't turn. Elbows tapped again, harder this time. The meaning clear : _let me do this._

Slowly, he lifted his arms up into the air, and Sherlock got a hold of his jumper and t-shirt, peeling them up off him so that only his black base layer was left. They went the way of his jacket, and John's heart thumped hard in his chest.

Fingers absently smoothed down the back of his hair, and John's hands flexed at his sides, a small intake of breath. The fingers paused.

"You liked that earlier, didn't you?" Sherlock mused. "Having your hair _pulled._" John's eyes half closed, no response, as Sherlock's fingers wound into the crown of his head, gripping his hair firmly.

"Interesting..." Sherlock stepped right up against him. "Soldier and doctor... Superior and _subordinate_." John's head was pulled back, so that he was fully able to see the glint in Sherlock's eyes. The eyes that were flecked with gold and twists of green and blue, unflinching. Eyes that could burn you to ashes with one scathing look. A stare so intense it was enough to make an ordinary man beg for mercy...

John's mouth went dry, eyes darting away to the ceiling. Any normal person would be shaking him off, tell him to stop fucking about. Any normal 100% straight male who was not in love with a half crazed dominating genius that is. He pursed his lips to the lightning bolt of excitement that shot through him when Sherlock grabbed his hip with his free hand.

John's breath quickened, held up against Sherlock like that, feeling those fingers slip under his base layer, smoothing across the skin and the dappled hair low on his stomach. He couldn't get away from those piercing eyes noting and measuring _every_ tiny movement in his expression. He tried to keep still. But this was now a game of wills. How long could he last without making a noise?

He shivered at the pain/pleasure response triggered by the fingers flexing in his hair, twisting. Every nerve seemed hyper aware of Sherlock's other hand dipping past the loose belt on his hips, moving down _there._ It was a game of trust too.

_I can keep secrets._

He nearly lost it outright when Sherlock nuzzled into his exposed neck, simultaneously reaching down past his base layer into his boxers, but he managed to bite his lip, fists tightly clenched down by his sides. It really wasn't fair to have the extra sense of Sherlock's shirt sleeve sliding along the sensitive inside of his arm either. He closed his eyes. Again, that _sensory overload._ He couldn't think, his brain had been put on pause.

"Hmm saying 'no' is a such tricky thing... it doesn't always mean _no_." John felt the vibration of those words along the side of his neck as Sherlock whispered, his strengthening hard-on captured in Sherlock's grip. "No can just be...disbelief...or over-excitement... 'no I can't take it anymore but _please_ keep doing it'" Sherlock pulled back with a satisfied smile as John's eyes widened, his mouth parting a little. Sherlock was rubbing his length up and down again, in the middle of the day, in a rifle range. _Oh fuck-_ "So if you really want me to stop, then just say the magic word: Laggan. And I'll stop."

A safe word. The name of the loch. It looked like there was a high probability that he'd never be able to say that name again, without it meaning something completely different. Or turning bright red atleast.

"Okay?"

Sherlock released the grip on his hair, and John slowly righted himself, trying to appear nonchalant to the hand down his trousers, the fingers tracing down his neck. He didn't protest though. He actually nodded agreement.

John's heart was dancing on the line again, the line between fear and excitement. He wasn't afraid of getting hurt, and he doubted that was his intention... but he was afraid of.._.what?_ Feeling good? He hadn't exactly been raised with a sexually liberal attitude. It was always such a guilty thing. Alot of personal emphasis on pleasing his partner, rather than being pleased. And apart from the odd dominating girlfriend, his previous experiences hadn't exactly prepared him for _this_.

Another sharp breath. In and out, he had to actually remember that._ In and out_. But it was hard to concentrate with Sherlock's cool thumb rubbing around the head of his length, a twist across the sensitive nerves at the top... If he clenched his fists any harder he'd draw blood.

Sherlock withdrew his hand, but John knew this was just the beginning, as the taller man took a step to the side, looking him up and down. There was definitely nothing friendly about it now. His stomach flipped at the thought of Sherlock looking at him in that way when he'd been completely oblivious. He'd never thought that he could inspire that level of _want_ in someone else, not like this, not with him.

"Lace your fingers together and put your hands on your head."

John hesitated again, and Sherlock leant in to his ear, his deep voice steady and commanding. "_Now_."

Fingers laced, arms up, elbows out, hands on head.

"Perfect..." Sherlock started undoing the cuffs of his shirt, rolling up his sleeves neatly above the elbow. John glanced at him every few seconds, until Sherlock caught him looking, resting both hands on his hips like he did when he was gearing up for something challenging.

He gestured to the table. "Turn around and back up to it." This time John did exactly as he was told, all flustered cheeks and stubborn jaw, but still oh so very_ compliant_. He felt the gun table dig into the top of his arse as he leant against it, Sherlock was clearly fond of cornering him. And right then, he didn't mind being cornered.

The detective rubbed his own hands together, thumbing the palm that had been touching John, obviously taking great pleasure in ordering him to do things, deciding what to do next, or atleast where to start.

John was aching... a hundred images of them together flashing through his mind, memories and sensations ramping up his heart, toes pinched in his boots, anxious to get on with it. Whatever _it_ was.

Sherlock moved in close, hands tracing the outside of his raised arms, flowing down over his sides, the fabric of his top pulling slightly. All the way down, until they met in the middle, loosening the notch on his belt. His face was set to neutral, but his bright and calculating eyes locked with John's as he pulled out the belt completely, tossing it on to the table. _Mind games._ Did he really need to take the belt off? Some _extremely_ compromising ideas popped into John's mind, doing nothing to deter the heat from his face.

"Keep those hands there until I tell you otherwise." John's eyes flickered down, feeling Sherlock unbutton his denim jeans. In less than five seconds they were dropped around his ankles. His mouth popped open, about to say something, when Sherlock leant in and distracted him with a kiss.

Hot mouth, a stolen breath, fleeting tongue strokes. John leant into him, hard-on rubbing up against his clothes, Sherlock's wandering hands hooking into the two waistbands at his hips. He broke the kiss, pulling John's base layer shorts and boxers down, careful not to hurt him as he did it.

John's eyes shot over to the door, an exhilarating terror running through him. What if someone came in? He'd had a fairly pedestrian time of things in the past- so standing there naked between his waist and his knees with another man was literally blowing his mind.

"No one is coming down." John closed his eyes briefly, squeezing his fingers together as Sherlock cupped him in one hand, rubbing at the sensitive flesh at the base of his length. All business, like it was _normal_ to be doing this. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do."

That's what he'd said when they'd first arrived at Loch Laggan, causing John to remember other things... things that he should have taken more seriously._ "... I do know how to make you happy, John."_

He was so busy having flashbacks that Sherlock was already half way down to his knees before he realized what was going on. He jerked against the table, letting go of his hands, spluttering "Sherlock- _what_ are-?!"

"_I said_ hands on your _head_." John gasped as Sherlock smacked him on the side of his arse, an audible slap of flesh on flesh.

He instantly got back into position, a slightly worried expression on his face as he was forced to come to terms with the throb in his groin and the shiver of pleasure his second spank of the day had suddenly caused. That one was definitely not playful. Sherlock looked up at him from where he knelt, gently rubbing the skin where he'd slapped it, easing the sting as the blood rushed to the surface. "Just say the word if you want me to stop."

_Oh god oh god-_ He watched Sherlock slide a hand around the base of him, eyes lowered, face dipping forward, dark curls bouncing. _Shitshitshit!_ John looked back to the door, horny, panicked... but not enough to say the word.

Sherlock was on his knees...

_... Taking John into his mouth._

His brow furrowed sharply, eyes still wide. "...Oh fucking _hell_..." John whimpered under some serious heavy breathing. So much for being quiet. He could have handled another hand job but this? This was a whole other level.

He couldn't help but dig his fingers into his hair, just wanting something to cling to, as Sherlock's devious mouth set to work on him, tongue exploring the ridges his fingers had been touching only minutes before. John didn't know where to look, and if he closed his eyes, it only intensified the sensations that he was utterly unprepared to deal with.

Sherlock was holding his hip with one hand, as if afraid he might bolt away, and was firmly swiveling his grip around him as he sucked the head of his- _cockohmygodsherlockhashismouthonmycock-_

John moaned, and the sound echoed off the walls, panicking him. Someone was going to hear and come down, they were going to get caught! He pursed his lips together, trying to stay quiet, wanting to cover his mouth at least because every time Sherlock dipped forward, he could feel himself losing it a bit more and _a bit more_-

He chanced a glance down, just as Sherlock was pulling back, a warmth to his cheeks that contrasted against his normally pale skin. Eyes darkened with something _primal,_ something Sherlock never allowed himself to indulge in. John threw him a desperate look. "Someone's going to-" Sherlock smiled, lips teasing against his skin, and John stared with perverse fascination as the visual and tactile information matched up in his head, his heart pounding in his ears and throbbing in his groin.

He was looking right up at him, rubbing him up and down, increasing the speed as he started sucking again. John gasped out the words, knowing exactly what he was aiming for- "No...Sherlock... Oh please, _you can't-_" And it was exactly as he predicted it. This was why they needed a safe word. Because John was forever saying no for himself, forever denying himself and Sherlock was not going to listen. He was going to give him _exactly_ what he wanted.

Sherlock adjusted his position and tipped forward deeper, an involuntary twitch in John's hips demanding that he push to meet that depth but he tensed instead, another gasped moan, more of a cry of pleasure and _oh god_ he needed to cover his mouth- his hands were tingling, his arms were aching, because the tension was killing him, the _bastard_ on his knees was driving him crazy and _oh fuck_ - the noises coming out of him were obscene!

He was getting close, _too close. _John looked to the door, to the ceiling, to Sherlock- his fingers were slipping, he wanted to thrust, and he wanted to cover his mouth, but if he did he'd get spanked again. Sherlock would look at him with those angry eyes for breaking the rules and he'd get a slap, but he needed to cover his mouth or pull away before it was too late! Before he did something stupid.

"No, _nonono_ Sherlock-" He whispered, trying to warn him. "S-stop-!" But it wasn't the safe word, and he didn't want him to stop. Sherlock clearly understood this as he suddenly thought it would be a great idea to hum in pleasure, just as he sucked John in on the downward stroke. The added sensation was just_ too much._

John dropped his hands, unable to control himself any longer, covering his mouth to stifle the noises erupting out of it. He saw Sherlock raise his hand to the side, frowning at John's disobedience, and hitched a breath as the crack of hand on skin rang out.

Barely a second into the stinging rush and John cried out into his hands as the extra stimulation tipped him over the edge into orgasm, _ripping_ through him... and straight into the mouth of the detective on his knees.

He shuddered as every nerve ending seemed to flare and die in that one moment, still with his hands over his mouth, eyes closed as he panted through the cascade... the tremors. Sherlock squeezed his thigh just below where he'd spanked it and slowly drew back. _Swallowing._

"Well... that's something for future reference."

"_Ohmygod._.." John looked down at him, mumbling into his palms, with an expression somewhere between dazed and awed.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels and was up and standing in one smooth motion, dusting off his knees, apparently completely nonplussed by the event. John was still in shock, and still semi-naked, his clothes half strewn on the table. It was only when Sherlock began unrolling his shirt sleeves that John really started to get the power of thought back, so glad that he was leant up against the table otherwise he would have fallen over.

An eerie calm fell over him, quite different to just the usual post-orgasmic glow. Definitely shock. He ran his hands through his hair, hot but not bothered like before. John slowly tried to get himself back together, but his fingers felt like sausages, he kept fumbling his waistbands. He caught Sherlock looking at him as if about to chastise him about the layers, maybe even to laugh at him, but John cut him off before he could.

"I-I need them. The layers." He said defensively, clearing his throat as he finally managed to pull up his boxers and base layer shorts. Easing the fabric over the tender skin, he could just see a red mark jutting out - an outline of Sherlock's thumb. Of all the things he expected to see in his life, that mild welt was not one of them. Neither was the look in Sherlock's eyes when he...

John broke out of the daze and pulled up his jeans, but he could see they were atleast an inch and a half too loose. He was by no means anorexic, but he was so much slimmer now... Be it the heart-to-heart or the rush, he felt a wave of vulnerability fall over him. _Realization._ "And it's not just the weather." He began quietly, the admittance tumbling out.

"I'm cold. _All the time_. I mean you probably already know this, but when there isn't much food around, your body hoards the calories, the energy it_ does_ get... And it doesn't want to let it go for a small thing like staying warm." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He threaded his belt back in through the loops and thumbed the crease it made in the side of his jeans.

"I didn't take care of myself. I still don't. I..._missed you_...and I should have taken care of myself." He paused at the weight of those words in the air, before shrugging it off, turning away to sort out his t-shirt and jumper. "I just couldn't be bothered anymore."

It was the first time he'd openly broached the subject of how his PTSD relapse had triggered bad eating habits again, without it descending into an argument. It was progress. But John still needed to put his brave face on, as he slipped the t-shirt over his head. "So yeah sorry about that. Worrying you, I mean."

Sherlock moved closer, turning his jumper in the right way for John. "No need to apologize..." He murmured, handing it to him. John found it hard to look directly at him without going red. "... Are you... okay?"

John raised his eyebrows, twisting the jumper in his hands. He tried to answer several times before he had to take a breath and mentally compose himself, back straightening, serious. "You just... got down on your knees... a-aand gave me a_ blow job_, you even-" he really couldn't bring himself to say 'swallowed my cum' so he skipped it. "...and you're asking me if _I'm_ okay?"

Sherlock lips puckered into a mild pout, looking away, trying to conceal a pleased expression. The penny dropped.

"Wait... Did you plan that? Is that why you brought me here?" He wasn't sure how he felt about that, the conversation from earlier had seemed so natural, but then was any verbal discourse natural with someone who could think ten steps ahead?

Sherlock rolled his eyes, spotting his line of thinking. "Okay three things- _one:_ the only thing I planned was to bring you here simply because I knew you'd like it, and_ two:_ even if I had planned it, it still did you good."

"Oh, so you're my doctor now?" The tease came easily, suspicion averted. He pulled his jumper on over his head, just his coat remaining. "And three?"

"Hm?"

"You said three things. What's the third?"

"Oh yes-" he clapped both hands on top of John's shoulders, leaning in conspiratorially. "You're lucky I didn't put aside the time to plan, because I wouldn't have stopped at a simple blow job."

A simple blow job? What on earth did the complicated ones feel like then?

John had never been so aware of the intent that lurked behind that calm façade as he was in that moment. But then Sherlock had had six months to come to terms with all the possibilities for the two of them. He'd had six months to mull over the thought:_ 'if John and I were together, what would we do?'_

"I didn't _say_ the safe word." He said, red-faced but defiant, a little annoyed that Sherlock had this weird perception that just because he was a bit 'vanilla' that meant he was a complete sexual novice.

"You would have." Sherlock finished simply, scooping up his jacket and coat, a smug smile on his face.

A smile which was wiped off when John grabbed his head in both hands and kissed him full on the mouth, no tongues this time but still passionate. John let him go, the barest trace of salt on his lips, making his stomach feel all warm and his head stupidly fuzzy. These things were important.

Sherlock meanwhile looked both intrigued and surprised by the sudden move, a subtle tilt to his head as he regarded John.

"I _do_ know how you feel about me." John murmured, looking to the side.

"Yes, well-" John grabbed his wrist and Sherlock shut his mouth.

"I... y'know... feel the same..."

John looked up at him briefly, seeing Sherlock's gaze flicker across his face, hopefully reading the honesty.

Hopefully? He could _always_ read John.

"I know." Sherlock tried to keep a neutral face, but his smile cracked through. He twisted his hand in his grip so that his was holding John's wrist as well. "Home?"

"London?"

His expression cooled dramatically. "Not yet, John. Just the cottage." A squeeze.

John nodded, watching Sherlock as he let go and walked off towards the exit, wondering why the prospect of the cottage suddenly didn't seem like a good thing.

There was no avoiding it and Sherlock couldn't distract him forever. It always came back to one thing.

_What are you hiding?_


	15. Chapter 15

Hello my patient darlings! Thanks for sticking it out so long! I'm astounded. I can't believe you're all still here reading this tripe lol. Please take this chapter with a pinch of salt, it was an utter pain in the rear and even after editing could do with some refinement, but overall I'm finally happy with the plot direction... I might actually finish the bloody story at this rate (gasp!).

Side note: For my own reasoning, I have John pegged as 39 and Sherlock as 36. I say this because I'd like to follow on with more fics after this one involving birthdays and other soppy shit lol. These are just gestimates, but what I'll be sticking with for now.

As usual: ily. Enjoy.

**Chapter 15**

It hadn't been intentional. Never in John's life had he ever been the type to rock the boat by doing something as stupid as looking through a girlfriend's phone, so it shouldn't have been any different with Sherlock. Except it wasn't his phone he was tempted by right now. It was one of Sherlock's bags.

John ran his hands through his hair, trying not to look at the corner of the manila envelope that was sticking out of the duffle bag placed just behind the edge of the armchair. He glanced towards the living room door, the sound of the shower still filling up the cottage, worried about getting caught in the act. He'd been in there a while, he probably didn't have enough time... But that didn't stop him from shuffling forward to the edge of the sofa.

He could just take a small peek. Just open and closed. He had the right to, didn't he? After all, it wasn't as if Sherlock was precious about _his_ privacy. He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. It was probably nothing. But then again, it could be everything. It could explain the secret phone calls and whispered arguments, the pacing around at night when he thought John was sleeping... it could even be something to do with _The Thing_.

'_The Thing_' had become John's personal blanket term for whatever the Hell Sherlock was hiding from him. And it was getting worse. Two days ago they'd been running around and -John felt his face go red at the memory- fooling about. And then suddenly nothing all day yesterday and today. Alot of small talk, alot of reminiscing which was weird because-

_"Christ, Sherlock that was eons ago! I thought you erased all that 'guff' as you put it?"_

_"Well maybe I was a bit hasty with the term... Some of it sticked."_

_"My_ exact _words to you when we first met stuck with you, did they?"_

_"Remind me, what's the combination to your safe again?"_

Sherlock had meant it as a tease ofcourse, a 'so you think I'm weird well I know you are weird too' kind of thing. But the feeling had been bittersweet... The eight digit combination for it was actually Sherlock's initials and the date they had met. The date everything had changed. Was there any part of his life that wasn't touched by him? Sherlock had let himself in so completely and John had never refused.

Sherlock had seen how shy it made him feel...

_"It's alright, John."_

_"I know that."_

No more to be said. Topic changed.

One thing was for sure though, his emotions were slowly stabilising. Already John was beginning to lose some momentum on the yo-yoing of extreme feelings he'd been plagued with since Sherlock's return. He was growing bolder. He was finally beginning to feel more like himself again. It wasn't so harder to get up, to talk, even to eat. It all felt that little bit easier as the days ticked by. And the best part was: no major sickness or dizzy spells or a single nightmare the past two nights. It had to be a record.

But with renewed confidence came renewed curiosity. He'd tried to manoeuvre their conversations on to the right subject on several occasions, by dripping random questions into their conversations at every opportunity. Like, 'how do you think Lestrade is doing?' 'When was the court date again?' 'Do you know what they'll ask you at the trial?'

But Sherlock had been amazingly evasive and non-committal, brushing him off. As usual.

And now here John was, about to do something he didn't personally approve of. But Sherlock had had enough chances, he'd been given enough opportunities. And there was the folder too tempting to ignore. A case. It had to be a case.

Just one quick look. _One_.

He practically jumped up from the sofa, carefully unzipped the rest of the bag and pulled out the very thick unmarked envelope, all dog-eared and torn along the mouth. With a furtive glance over his shoulder to check the door was properly shut, he took a deep breath and slid out the contents on to his lap.

Three files. Approximately twenty to thirty pages of notes, records and photos in each. The first thing John thought as he noticed a few hurried scrawls in Sherlock's handwriting was: it must have been painful to not stick all these items up on the wall. Sherlock's Mind Palace probably had all the details squirreled away, but he still loved to have it laid out in the daylight. John worried his bottom lip between his teeth, spotting the labels.

Chace. Dixson. Moran.

He knew where this was going, and it gave him a sinking feeling low in his stomach. If the name of last folder was meant to indicate anything, it was that he was looking at the original trio. Moriarty's hired hitmen.

Opening the Chace file properly, he could see some newspaper clippings, a few medical reports and more importantly photos. The notes indicated that he was the assassin planted in Lestrade's office. The photo on his CV was quite banal, he was on the whole rather ordinary looking... but he had harsh eyes. He got the faint buzz of familiarity from him, but he couldn't pin-point the source. It would probably come back to him later. The only other accompanying photos were the ones showing his dead body laying face down on a stone floor.

John frowned, flicking through to the Dixson file. After Sherlock returned, he'd asked Mrs Hudson about the handyman who came to the flat. And even knowing what he knew now, he really tried not to think _'well ofcourse he looks like a killer_,' because he hated being judgmental on looks alone but well... _Shit, he does look like a bloody murderer_! And the thought of Mrs Hudson, alone with him whilst he was running off... It could have all ended so very differently.

Again he skimmed past the photos of his dead face. Both Dixson and Chace were reported suicides, and as there was no history trail following them, the media had swung wildly between the 'hitman's remorse' theory (utter drivel) and 'the hitmen got hit' (unfortunately far more likely). But the big trial and the media frenzy had largely overshadowed that part of the case. Everyone was hoping to get more answers on the day.

John bit his lip, and moved on to the final folder.

Moran's.

It really hit him then what the file actually meant. To him as well as to Sherlock probably. It was smaller than the other two but far more crumpled and worn from repeated handling. This was the man who would have killed him and he wouldn't have known any better. He was smiling in his mugshot but there were dark circles around his eyes. What had he been losing sleep over? Either way, they'd found enough evidence when they caught him to take him to trial without a confession. And he hadn't resisted...

And this was just one of the many things that worried John. Moran actually operated under his own name unlike the other two. He was ex-army, had an impeccable service record, discharged with honour six years prior. Two years later he was working for Moriarty...

John swallowed, mouth dry. What made a good guy go bad? Or was he always that way? _Like_ finding _like_. How many times had John been stood in his gun-sight and survived? It should have disturbed him more than it did.

John tossed the files on to the coffee table and went into the hallway, knocking on the bathroom door sharply.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

The water continued to run, with no response.

"Sherlock?" He knocked again and waited about ten seconds, before trying the handle. Unlocked.

A rush of steam came out of the room into the hallway but it didn't deter him from stepping half inside. Sherlock was standing atleast, he could see that much through the clear shower curtain. He tried to remind himself that he was a doctor and had seen many naked people over the years- he'd even seen Sherlock naked before, on numerous occasions. It was just very different this time round. He was...kind of... _allowed_ to look now. Right?

John's gaze traveled up the blurred outline of his calves, up to his thighs, the curve of his... John pursed his lips, frustrated by the way he could be so easily distracted. He'd managed with Irene, he could manage this. "Sherlock, I need to-"

He paused, something striking him as very odd. It was the way Sherlock was standing. He slowly moved into the small bathroom, closing the door behind him with a nudge of his foot, wafting the steam out of his face. He peered around the front edge of the curtain, to try and get a clearer view of Sherlock's face-_ and only his face -_ to try and confirm his suspicions_._ John's mouth quirked into a smile for a split second, amazed.

Sherlock was _sleeping_.

His head was bent forward, almost to the point of resting on his chest, arms crossed, leaning against the tiles on his left side. The water was mainly catching him on the shoulder and chest, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was sleeping standing up.

John rolled up his sleeves and reached in, turning the water off. He'd gone in there all fired up, expecting to meet more resistance to his questioning and then Sherlock completely floored him by doing something like this. He'd missed the randomness so much.

He picked up the towel half hanging off the rack and pushed back the curtain, just as Sherlock blinked open his eyes, the top of his nose crinkling in confusion.

"Come on Sleeping Beauty, you've been in here for over half an hour." John could have just thrown the towel at him but he opened it up instead. Sherlock slowly uncrossed his arms, pushing back off the wall carefully, an unusually dazed expression on his face. He looked around, almost as if he couldn't remember how he got there.

"Asleep?"

John wiggled the open towel at him with a nod. "You could have hurt yourself doing that." Sherlock stepped out of the bath and let John throw the towel around him, turning him and pulling it tight round the front.

Sherlock looked at him through wet lashes, hair slicked back and dripping. "Did you-?"

John cut him off with a wry smile. "I was a perfect gentleman, I only took photos, I didn't touch." Sherlock snorted and John let his hands drop, it wasn't just the steam making him warm. He needed to get his serious face on. "But I do have a bit of a confession to make."

"Oh?" Sherlock smiled, but a few glances and John's slightly averted gaze made it slip. "_Oh_..." His eyes suddenly regained their sharpness, narrowing at him. "I didn't think you were the type."

John wasn't proud but he wasn't going to roll over on this one either. "You didn't exactly leave me much choice. Plus that's a bit hypocritical don't you think?"

"So it's a taste of my own medicine then?"

"It's not a competition. I had a genuine reason- you're just nosy to be nosy."

Sherlock pushed past him and swung open the door, John catching the barest hint of arse-cheek as the towel swooshed out behind him. _Oh for gods sake concentrate! _John clenched his fists, taking in a steamy breath before following Sherlock down the hall and into the living room. He flounced into his armchair, and John leant on the back of the sofa.

"Ready to answer my questions now?"

Sherlock gave him a sharp glare, water droplets dripping off the end of his nose. John would have laughed if he didn't look so thoroughly incensed, seeing the flicker of muscle in his tensed jaw. Sherlock stretched out his long legs, placing one wet foot on the pile of folders, sliding them completely off the table and on to the floor, before crossing his other leg over at the ankle.

John gestured to the fluttering papers spreading out. "Lestrade's files were they?"

"Might be."

"Feel better?"

"Might do."

"I'll get started now shall I?"

"Might as well."

"_Great_!" They locked eyes. "Pulling teeth would probably be easier though." He muttered under his breath.

"Well ask then."

"Alright." He licked his lower lip, taking his time to think where to start. The softly-softly approach. Something genuine first to coax him out of his shell. He knew what he had to say. "I've... neglected you a bit, haven't I?"

Sherlock actually stuttered, surprised. A good start for John. "W-what?"

He skirted around the edge of the sofa, Sherlock eyeing him suspiciously all the way as he drew closer. He could just about perch on the edge of the coffee table without getting wet from the small puddle he'd made. Hands on knees, back straight, resolve set.

"I don't think I've really thanked you. Properly I mean." John smiled shyly, seeing Sherlock gripping the towel around him. "For saving my life... And the others obviously...but me mainly. _Selfishly_. I really don't think I was able to take you seriously about it until I saw the files. So..._thank you_, Sherlock." He could feel his throat tighten with emotion towards the end, but fought the feeling back, giving Sherlock's leg a reassuring, if slightly slippery, squeeze. "And for looking after me too." He added.

Sherlock was apparently stunned into silence, mouth slightly parted, eyes warm. He knew what that look meant. _Devotion_. The look of a man who would do it all again. It gave John butterflies, but he couldn't let the opportunity go by becoming distracted. "But I don't need you to do that for me anymore. What I need is for you to tell me what's going on. The truth. Please."

Sherlock looked down at the files spilled across the floor, then back up to where John had his hand in his leg. After a moment's deliberation, he seemed finally ready to spill the beans. He ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth, hissing in an unhappy breath. "What do you want to know?"

John sighed, "Well, why all the secrecy for one thing? There didn't seem to be much in the files that you hadn't already discussed with Lestrade and his team. I've been with you half the time. I've seen and heard things too. I've not been that self-absorbed." Sherlock began to tug on the hem of his towel, picking at it as John continued. "Also you've scrawled all over most of the things in there, which is unusual. You hardly ever take notes, unless-"

"Unless _what?_" He pulled a thread off with a sharp jerk of his hand.

"Unless you're distracted. Maybe even stretching yourself too thin." John leant forward as Sherlock laughed derisively. "It's not a jibe, Sherlock, we should be working together- you shouldn't be skulking around listening out for me, checking to see if I'm okay, taking me on holiday or whatever this is. You're burning the candle at both ends- falling asleep in the shower, at dinner, mid-sentence, the hushed phone calls, the _loud_ phone calls. We were partners once-"

"We still are!"

"Then treat me like one. Get talking. Do the conductor of light thing you like so much. Use me as a soundboard. Why hide the files from me?"

"It's nearly over, John, can we not do this-?"

"All the more reason for you not to be so secretive. Not long now until Moran is put away for life for the murders and other crimes he committed under Moriarty's direction. From what I saw in the reports, it's a done deal. It's not going to be like last time." He withdrew his hand, wiping the water off on his knee.

Meanwhile, Sherlock rolled his eyes, giving John his best 'you poor fool' look. It was pretty high on his list of Most Hated Sherlock Expressions, but he held his tongue. "Really John, do you honestly think it's as simple as that? Just because Moriarty fell out of his web, doesn't mean the threads went with him. We can still get trapped in them." He flicked the thread out of his fingers emphasising his point. "Granted, I thought it would be much easier than this. But there were... _complications_." He looked away, wriggling one arm fully free of the towel to play with his wet hair. "I'd suspected for a while that he hadn't been working alone... So whilst I was away I began gathering information. So much easier to obtain after a man dies, people become much more talkative..." He trailed off for a moment lost in thought, but quickly resumed. "Anyway, I'd managed to keep my inquiries close to the bone on the continent. Faced very little trouble really..."

"Boring?"

"Wretchedly so. And then there was the whole, 'starting again' thing..." A furtive glance in John's direction. That part was clearly an unpleasant for him too, but atleast he was opening up now. "It was a wake up call. Once the idea was planted that I could return... That with some perseverance I could get you back in my life... Well... I just had to do it didn't I?"

John looked at him quizzically, why did he sound so angry about it? Sherlock looked like he'd eaten something sour when he next spoke.

"...I made a _mistake_."

He almost did it, he almost said something suitably sarcastic and jokey, but he resisted. Sherlock was so wound up by whatever was going on that he was pulling hard on a lock of damp hair, making himself wince, eyes glazing over as he retreated back into his thoughts.

John slapped his thigh gently, gesturing to the hair pulling when he got Sherlock's attention. The man unravelled his fingers, gripping the arm rest instead. John could feel goosebumps on his thigh, he would have been freezing right now if it was him. "Come on, come and get dressed-"

"I was sloppy. I don't know when it happened. But I made a mistake somewhere. I had to clear the way first, for my return. If I was to come back I needed to find the snipers and make sure they were no longer a threat." John tensed, automatically wondering what exactly that was meant to entail. Sherlock clarified. "Legally. For the most part. Mycroft was to do the real dirty work, if you can imagine that."

"Rather not-"

"But I caught Moran's attention first. Within a week of my return, the other two were dead. Dixson and Chace."

"Both suicides by poisoning."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the armrest. "Dixson had a daughter. Chace had a brother. Moran has not admitted it yet, but I'm positive he forced them to take the poison or he would kill them."

John frowned. "What like-?"

"Yes. Our first case together." He continued before John could splutter more interruptions. "A month is a long time to a hired assassin who lives from job to job, pretty much in a state of adrenaline and constant suspicion. So five months of living without a powerful sponsor like Moriarty must have drained his accounts and his energy fairly quickly." He leant forward, towel sliding down around to his waist, a hand placed on the inside of John's knee. "Moran is intelligent yes, but he wasn't exactly playing for the long game. Until I surfaced atleast."

"But why kill them at all?"

Sherlock continued with the energy of a man who had lived his life in silence and had finally met someone to talk to- again this twisted John's heart painfully. _If you'd just opened up to me sooner... _But Sherlock was thankfully oblivious to his internal agonising for once_._

"I believe he wanted them to renew their old contracts. The _hits_." John felt Sherlock's touch tighten. He swallowed nervously. "But they must have refused. They weren't loyal or honour bound like he was. Moran didn't have the money to buy them back again. So he came up with a new plan."

"Yes, but why bother? That doesn't make any sense. It was over, he could have left the country and you wouldn't have pursued-" Sherlock moved his feet off the table, shuffling forward as John ranted. "He wasn't going to get anything out of it by confronting you, and you've been everywhere since then, if he wanted to do something he could have just waited and gone for you? It's not as if Moriarty was going to pat him on the back-"

Sherlock moved his hands to the outside of John's thighs and slowly dragged them up along the denim, looking up at John, whose trail of thought had literally ground to a halt at the sensation. "_Revenge_, John."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, squeezing John once, and instantly he made the connection. "They... were..."

"I believe Moriarty and Moran were lovers. Yes." Sherlock moved his hands away, the spell broken, slumping back again with a face of thunder. The towel slid so low that John could see a faint sprawl of fine hair just above the edge... he looked away sharply, trying to keep a clear head.

"Oh." Not so clear in the vocabulary department however.

"Yes, '_oh_.'" Sherlock steepled his hands together, fingers at his lips, talking through them. "He always said he should get a 'live in one.'" He murmured vaguely.

"Okay revenge then, I'll go with that for now." It looked like this whole conversation was going to be full of uncomfortable questions and answers. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. "...Why not just do the...'_hits_' himself? He's a top marksman, he could have done it."

"If Moriarty was a spider, then Moran is a cat. He prefers to play with his food first." Sherlock wasn't joking when he said it. "I think Dixson and Chace didn't want to play anymore so he punished them... If he couldn't re-enact Moriarty's last 'perfect' plan, he needed to make a new one. One decidedly more to his tastes."

John had a terrible feeling that he knew what was coming, but all he could think about right then was what kind of person fell in love with a cruel mastermind like Moriarty? "That...that _can't_ be right. There's no way you say to someone you care about: 'kill his friends if he doesn't jump, and if he does do it, no matter what happens- _even if I die_- don't kill them anyway.' I mean he must have known almost immediately that Moriarty killed himself- and it's not like he had any morals to contend with clearly so what difference did it make?"

"I didn't say _he_ cared about Moran. I suspect it was solely one way. Or maybe a master/slave scenario..." Now that was a mental image he did not want in his head. "I can only deduce my theories from what I've discovered and seen for myself in recent weeks. The only explanation that fits the scenario is revenge. He wasn't related to Moriarty, so no family loyalty per se; he'd also only been in his employ for four years that we know of, but even in his line of work his methods would be seen as wildly out of character for an ordinary employee/boss situation. Therefore, it leaves us with a man who lost someone he was completely infatuated with."

"But why now? Why stir things up again?"

"You know why. Because misery loves company. Originally, he thought I was dead, so I could no longer suffer. But _you_ could. Then I came back. I changed the rules. Like you said to me once: the dead have it easy, it's the ones left behind that suffer the most." John closed his eyes putting his face in his hands, this was so messed up, so twisted- to think that someone out there had been watching him fall apart and loved it, because it made them feel better.

"Well they sound perfect for each other- both _completely_ psychotic." He said looking up at him with a strained smile. Sherlock's hair was starting to curl in the air, he was so pale and still John would have assumed he was asleep again if his eyes hadn't been open. As he took the sight of him in, John was hit with an unexpected tightening in his chest. The fallout from the day at St. Barts had nearly destroyed him...so what had it done to a man like Moran? "Why do I feel like this is just the tip of the iceberg?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers against each other, toes curling into the edge of the rug. "I believe the murders were more than his anger at being refused. They were calculated to get my attention. He could have done it in any number of ways...over the years we worked on several cases linked to Moriarty. Even before we met, Lestrade asked for my help numerous times with 'problems' that I know now in hindsight were linked to him." His hands dropped, fidgeting in his seat, agitated. "But he chose to replicate the first case _you_ assisted me on. The one that really started it all..."

John felt himself go cold, all the little bits of information lining up to outline what was really going on. "He's behind bars... and yet you're still worried... It was a message for you." He knew then exactly what Sherlock didn't want to say to him.

"John, don't look like that, it's-" Sherlock grasped John's hand awkwardly, trying to be reassuring but John pulled away, getting to his feet.

"What did the code say?" He whispered.

Sherlock tucked himself back into the towel, doing his pretend 'I don't know what you are talking about' face. That one was also on The List. "...What code?"

"The _photo_ Sherlock!" John actually made him jump as he leant over him and thumped his hands on the arm of the chair. "The one on Lestrade's phone. It was a code wasn't it?"

Sherlock stared up at him stubbornly, but John didn't back down. After a few moments, he relented, practically talking through gritted teeth.

"...It said: '_I only need to strike the heart.'_"

John stood back up, running a hand through his hair. Taking a deep breath.

He'd heard that particular description being used alot in recent months. Many people thought he was the emotional compliment to Sherlock's logic. He didn't read much into such a cut and dry summary, but he could see the reasoning. It had infact been Moriarty who had coined it first, John being Sherlock's heart. A beautiful sentiment put forward by a madman. It was their luck all over. "You think he's after me? This is what it comes down to? This is what you didn't want to tell me?"

"Our partnership has always been less than conventional... Mrs Hudson and Lestrade...well that's different. I think he was trying to prove that point when he killed the other two." Sherlock's expression hardened. "It was much too convenient for him to be found and taken into custody. He _wanted_ to be behind bars."

"Why?"

"How do you think that assassin got hired as a desk clerk in Lestrade's office?"

John frowned. "You think there is a mole?"

"It would explain why I found police-grade bugs in both our phones."

"You said you didn't know where they were from!"

"I didn't want to say until I'd verified a few things. I didn't want you jumping to any conclusions- you can rest assured that Lestrade had nothing to do with it."

"So that's the real case? Find the leak at Scotland Yard?"

"I didn't realise how much danger I could have been putting you in by asking you to come to the Yard with me. I was... preoccupied. And alot of this information has only just recently been revealed. It's harder to get anywhere when I'm banned from further investigation because of 'conflict of interest.' I'm... sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about, it's not exactly been easy for either of us. Like I said, I've been a bit wrapped up... but I would have been there for you if you'd just said something-"

"Yes, I'm sure it would have gone down very well a week ago, me telling you how I suspected that you're the target of an enraged hitman who wants to kill you as revenge for me outwitting his boyfriend." Sherlock replied sarcastically, hunching down into the armchair. "It wouldn't have tipped you over the edge _at all_, I'm sure."

"Don't be so dramatic. This isn't any worse than what we've faced before. If anything we're more prepared."

Sherlock glanced up at him out of the corner of his eyes. "'_We_?' No, _you_ are staying out of it."

"Ah, like Hell I am." He laughed, but Sherlock was being serious.

"I'm not going to argue with you about this. You're not requested to be at the trial, therefore you have no reason to go back to London until it is over."

"Sherlock, he is behind bars. Granted, they might be a little _bent_," he mentally gave himself an A+ for wit, "but if you think I'm going to arse about in the Highlands whilst you swan off back to the docks to give your expert testimony, you've got another thing coming. I'll be _fine_." He was infact handling it very well. "So stop being so worried."

"I won't stop being _so worried_ until my brother gets his hands on him after conviction or until the man is dead, whichever comes first-"

"Need I remind you, that it was your brother that helped to get us into this mess in the first place-"

"He won't make the same mistakes twice."

"And how lucky we both are to be around to see that happen."

Sherlock didn't bat an eyelid at the heavy sarcasm. "You're not coming back to London with me, John."

He was definitely getting tired of this. "No, no, right ofcourse not, because it's _so much better_ for me to hide out in the woods during a deer cull." John thought of the masked gunman again, and the eerie feeling the encounter had left on him. "I mean, what do you really know about Moran? You seem to think he's the dangerous one, what if he's got someone else to do the job for him?"

"You don't save the best piece of cake until last, just to have someone else eat it for you."

John's mouth popped open in total disbelief. "So I'm _cake_ now?"

"It was a perfectly appropriate metaphor." Sherlock seemed to briefly enjoy his little private joke, but John didn't want to know. The impulse to wipe the stupid smile off his face was too strong to resist. He grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled his head back so that he was forced to look right up at John. That stunned him enough to pay attention.

"You _don't_ own me, Sherlock. And I didn't spend the last six months in Hell just to read about the conviction in the newspapers, just like I found out about every other _sordid detail_ in this nightmare! I'm not afraid of going back." And he realised then that it was true. This was something he wouldn't hide from. John's grip on his hair slackened, anger wavering, his free hand reaching into the folds of the towel at Sherlock's neck, fingertips touching his skin. "He doesn't scare me."

"I don't want you anywhere near him."

"I need this." John insisted. "I _need_ the closure. I know you made Lestrade block me from being called to testify about what happened. But I _won't_ let you take this away from me. You're not going to shut me out. We're in this together. Understood?"

Sherlock had that devoted look about him again, but it was edged with such frustration at being cornered. John knew he didn't like to give in. So much so, that he could only manage a small nod, and it looked like it killed him to do even that. But it filled John with relief- Sherlock was finally starting to take him seriously again.

He gently smoothed Sherlock's damp hair out of his eyes, continuing. "I mean someone like Moran has to have enemies as well as friends, he could just be using the police as free protection. You said so yourself that money was likely to be an issue. Moriarty wasn't exactly the caring, sharing type." He reasoned, eyes unconsciously flicking down to the towel and back up again. "I specifically got involved with you for the danger, I'm hardly going to complain now."

Sherlock's voice was low when he replied, barely more than a whisper. "I don't want to play this game, John."

His eyes were a wider than they should have been, and John realised then that he could feel the faint but rapid beating of his heart under his fingertips.

The unphasable Sherlock Holmes was _scared_.

There was no experiment going on making him panic, there were no guns pointed at his head, no explosives ready to blow and no poisoned pills inches from his mouth... He was just _afraid_. For himself? For John? He couldn't bring himself to ask. John just knew that made him feel weak and inferior. Sherlock just didn't have enough information to predict how it was going to end, and he couldn't control all the variables to guarantee the ending he desired. Sherlock didn't like to play a game he thought he might lose. He needed control, but John couldn't give in on this.

So he did the only thing he could do. He tried to comfort him. "It's going to work out." He whispered against his mouth, kissing once. "Trust me. I've always believed in you... Give me the same credit."

Sherlock's expression seemed to crack in pain for a split second, before it was replaced by something far more fierce. He reached up from underneath the towel and pulled John down over the arm of the chair turning him into his lap. This was something he was more than happy to give in to, especially after two days of cold turkey since the gun range- he was just as desperate to feel that connection again. Time to turn the world off, to give in again to the tension stretched between them.

It was the strangest sensation to feel like he was the one exposed, when Sherlock was the one sitting in just a towel, but that was just the effect he had on John. One hand slid into the back of his jeans, the other forcing them together as they kissed, John trying to push down the towel but getting caught up in it... Sherlock looked positively outraged when John wriggled away from him, but it was only so he could get up to put himself in a better position.

If someone had said to him at the beginning of all this:_ 'you'll be straddling that man one day_.' John would have probably died laughing. But there he was, knees wedged either side of Sherlock as he was helped out of his jumper, hip to hip and only a few thin layers of fabric between them.

John was suddenly too pumped full of adrenaline to give in to his usual blushes. There was no talking, just heavy breathing and _need_. John rocked forward with his hips, bending over Sherlock with hands either side of his face, cutting off his moan with another kiss. Sherlock's long fingers slid up underneath his t-shirt, gripping on to him in a tight hug as he bucked up against him in return.

He quickly lowered a hand between them without a second thought and undid his jeans, button and zip, sighing at the eased pressure even with his boxers in the way still. But he had other ideas, hand skirting in between the towel to help Sherlock out.

John was a little surprised when Sherlock abruptly froze, still hugging him but stopping the kiss. This was the first time John had actually touched him there, and Sherlock was usually the one in the driver's seat, so it must have been unnerving for both of them on some level. But he wasn't told to stop... so John slowly continued, using his other hand to move the towel completely out of the way.

He didn't look down at the hardening length in his hand that wasn't his own. Instead he found himself strangely compelled to keep looking at Sherlock's face, the way it opened up with each stroke. He was fascinated by the mild flush of heat across his cheeks, which he thought was so much more dignified than his own reactions- when John blushed he thought he looked like a tomato in comparison.

Sherlock on the other hand couldn't resist looking down at what John was doing to him, eyebrows quirking up, tongue darting over his bottom lip. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock's fingers pressed into the muscles across John's back, nudging his face into the crook of his neck, encouraging him.

So he rolled his hips again, stroking down as he did so, marveling at how he could reduce this great man to a few shivers and hitched breathing. He'd never seen Sherlock this _vulnerable_... Lean muscles taut, pupils blown wide, trying to push up into John's grip. It made him ache in more places than one.

"Off- off!" Sherlock demanded, tugging at John's tshirt, and again he obliged sitting up to let Sherlock wrestle it off over his head, flinging it to one side.

John went to put his hands back but Sherlock stopped again, this time actually resisting his advances. "What?" He laughed, thinking he was messing around but he caught on quickly that he _really_ wasn't. John's smile faltered.

Sherlock was staring at his scar, the near two inch starburst pattern in the dip at his shoulder that had nearly cost him his life back in Afghanistan. But he wasn't just staring at it- he was looking at it so intensely it was as if he was seeing it for the first time. And was horrified by it.

John could tell by the look on his face, that he was thinking about all the possibilities. The _bad_ ones. All the ways this _could_ end. If anyone could know all the ways to die, it was him after all... The cool mask began to slip back into place, and John just looked on helplessly. This explained the absence of affection for the past couple of days atleast. Sherlock had run himself into the ground dealing with all the stress by himself. He was clearly really worried after the latest developments, and John had stupidly taken it the wrong way.

"Sherlock...come on." He bent to kiss him but Sherlock turned away just enough to make the message clear. The moment was well and truly gone.

He was nearly forty years old and he couldn't quite remember rejection stinging this badly, but then again, these things were proportionate- he'd never fallen so completely before. The imagery wasn't lost on him. _Oh...please don't let this be a tragedy_. John sighed, tapping his fingers on the armrests, forcing a smile as he looked away. The passion dissolved rapidly as he pushed back off of him and got to his feet.

"John-"

He cut him off. "It's alright. Don't make it into a big deal." John grabbed up his tshirt from the edge of the sofa and put it back on quickly. Self-conscious.

"I didn't- I can't help it-" Sherlock covered himself with the towel as John did his jeans back up. He reached for John's hand when he was done but he moved out of reach. "I can't just turn it off."

"What you need is to eat, have a nice cup of tea and get some rest. You're wound up tighter than a coiled spring and you need to be on top form for the trial." It was so much easier to slip into doctor-mode than it was to confront what he was feeling right now. "You take the bed tonight, you like to spread out."

Sherlock leant on his knees, looking up at him with a frown. "John, wait. Can we just-?"

"I'll stick the teapot on."

Sherlock didn't respond, and John didn't need him to, he just marched into the kitchen and pushed the door semi closed behind him. Teapot filled, crappy camping stove lit and about a ten minute wait ahead of him.

John glanced back at the door, trying not to feel wounded or embarrassed but he failed on both accounts. "And don't even _think_ about taking the Defender by the way." He called back. "It's in my name and I will have no qualms reporting it stolen, which will really throw a spanner in the works for you-"

The door slammed open, smacking against the wall. John nearly dropped the box of sugar cubes he was getting out of the cupboard. It was a wonder the building was still standing, what with the way Sherlock was forever crashing about in it.

Even with a towel tucked around his waist he still cut an imposing figure in the doorway, but John gave him his blandest expression to pretend he hadn't noticed or cared. "I agreed didn't I?" Sherlock seethed. "We're going back together like _you_ want!"

"Actually, you sort of vaguely nodded in my direction but thanks for spelling it out for me. One lump or two?"

Sherlock back handed the box out of his grip, scattering the contents across the sideboard and on to the floor. _Very mature._

He was less than impressed. "I'm not clearing that up."

"You listen to me. If we're going back together I will not be able to watch you 24/7 when the trial starts-"

John threw his hands in the air. "Oh for God's sake Sherlock! I don't need a babysitter!"

"So when we get there you need to do everything I say, _to the letter_. If I tell you to leave, you go, if I say sit in the gallery, you stay sitting in the gallery until I indicate otherwise- do we have a deal?"

"Are you actually getting off on this? Ordering me about?"

"John, _please_!"

"_Yes_!" He yelled back, before forcing his temper down again. "Sherlock, okay. We have a deal. I'll follow your orders. _To the letter_. Alright? Now can I enjoy the rest of my break without you being a complete mother hen about everything?"

Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, eyes darting as he gave John's face a thorough visual inspection. He waited patiently, gaze steady in return. Whatever he saw there finally seemed to ease this latest outburst, as Sherlock's mouth gradually relaxed out of the tight line he'd jammed it into. "You're really _okay_... aren't you?"

"You think I'm acting?" John smiled, giving his warm hip a squeeze. Sherlock sighed, head hanging down like the weight of the world had been lifted from his back. "Hey, tell you what. How about we forget the tea, and we go for dinner at The Far Point instead? It's not even seven yet."

"Excellent idea, I'll drive!" He instantly sprung back into life, whirling around to hurry out with renewed exuberance. John didn't know where he got that instant energy from, but he couldn't pass up the opportunity that presented itself, hooking his fingers into the back of the towel, whipping it off of Sherlock in one fluid motion.

"Unless you want the other patrons to think I've rented you out, I suggest you put some clothes on first." He said, dissolving into laughter as Sherlock slid to a halt.

He looked down at himself before throwing a haughty look at John over his shoulder, walking out of the kitchen as free as a bird, and with about as much shame as one. "_As if_ you wouldn't pay for this."

"_I do_! Every minute of the day!" John threw the soggy towel round the corner at him, hitting him in the back of the legs. "Get dressed you muppet, I'm hungry."

He would have been a liar if he said he didn't enjoy watching him walk off, feeling his face redden as he stared.

But that just made him pray harder to whoever could be listening, again and again...

_Please, PLEASE don't let this be a tragedy._


	16. Chapter 16

Crikey, you sure know how to make a girl feel wanted! Thank you so much for all the messages and support, this whole story has basically evolved from YOUR encouragement. It has grown _far beyond_ my expectations and I really feel that whilst it isn't perfect, I've definitely learnt alot on the way. This will be the first story I have ever finished (_YES ALL REMAINING CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN PLOTTED_), and it is quite literally MY BABY. So thank you times infinity! I've put the hours in writing this bullshit, granted, but it's you lot that spend _your free time_ going through it and that literally blows my socks off.

Anyway as promised, I bring thee Chapter 16! ((Hold on to your hats though, because Chapter 17 is gonna be a biggie _ ))

**Chapter 16**

"I thought you said to me, in_ no uncertain terms_ that you 'weren't going anywhere'?" John said, skimming another stone across the lake surface as Sherlock approached.

"The car is loaded up." Sherlock replied, completely ignoring the question. "Teresa was kind enough to pack us some sandwiches-"

"You're doing your 'everything-is-hunky-dory-conversationalist' voice again."

Above them, the sky was grey and overcast, cracked apart like old plaster. Loch Laggan stretched out in front, somehow strangely inviting despite the cold chill in the air. John chewed the inside of his lower lip. _Laggan._ The safe word. His mind wandered briefly, picturing the flush across Sherlock's face, eyes flicking up to look at him... This trip had been more than memorable - it had changed everything. Or rather, it had cemented everything.

"And you're doing your 'I'm-trying-to-be-annoyed-but-all-I-can-think-of- is-Sherlock-on-his-knees-giving-me-head' voice." John spluttered at this, fumbling the stone in his hand, accidentally throwing it straight into the water with a dull '_thunk_' noise instead of skimming it. "Again." Sherlock added, a sly smile lighting up his face as he stopped next to John, taking a stone from him.

"How were you going to do it?"

"Do what?" Sherlock flicked the stone at just the right angle, bouncing it three times, ripples spanning out across the water.

"How were you going to leave?" He asked, frustration evident in his voice. John straightened, trying not to sound like he was starting an argument, it had just been bugging him all morning. "Were you just going to write another note?"

The smile disappeared from his face, growing solemn. "The trial is expected to last atleast two weeks... I was hoping you'd agree to stay whilst I went. You never expressed any intentions of going, I didn't think-"

"You didn't even ask me though."

"I was going to come straight back, I don't see what the problem is."

He laughed a little, shaking his head. "You _really_ don't, do you?"

And suddenly, just like that, the atmosphere changed.

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air, sneering. "Oh, can you stop being so fucking _needy_ all the time?"

John's brow creased in confusion as he looked up at him. _Where the bloody Hell did that come from?_ "W-what?"

"Desperation isn't exactly a key trait I look for in a partner." Sherlock knocked the stones out of his hand, advancing on him angrily as John backed up. "After all this time, I'm _disappointed_- this reunion has been such a let down! I don't know why I even bothered."

John felt like he'd been punched, not quite believing the anger in Sherlock's voice, fists automatically clenching at his sides. He was joking - surely he had to be joking? It just really wasn't funny.

"The whole 'look-at-me I'm not well, I'm traumatized' act is wearing a_ little_ thin." He rolled his eyes, lip curling in disdain. John tried to defend himself, but his mouth felt like it was wired shut, energy draining from him with every word Sherlock spat at him. "All your _whining_ and _complaining_, all the arguments and red eyes. Ugh, I'm _sick_ of it!"

Sherlock grabbed John up by the scruff of his jumper, lifting him up on to his toes, putting them practically nose to nose, whispering with such unbridled _hatred_ it made his stomach churn. "And I'm sick of _you_."

He pushed John back away from him, face contorted in disgust as if he'd touched something rotting, and John bumped back up against something.

_Someone._

A tight hand clamped down on the side of his neck, swiveling him around. Moriarty sing-songed into his horrified face. "Aww...lovers quarrel? _I can fix that_."

John's eyes flew open, sucking in a sharp breath, swatting away the touch at his throat. A long time ago, he had been physically close enough to Moriarty to trigger revulsion, and in that split second between dream and reality, he felt it surge up again. He blinked a few times, the gentle rocking of his seat and the low clatter of tracks underneath it bringing him back to his senses.

Sherlock looked down at him, hand still pulling back slowly, a trace of concern crossing his face before disappearing. "...Your tea will go cold." Or perhaps John's sleep-addled eyes had imagined it.

"Oh..._mm_...sorry about that, I thought something had landed on me again." John lied, gesturing to his neck, sitting up straight. Sherlock sat back down in the seat opposite and fixed him a look which blatantly said: _why even bother trying to lie at all?_

But John wasn't going to back out of his lame excuse though, because he was already preoccupied with squashing down the disappointment. It felt like he'd had only a brief reprieve and now the disturbing dreams had reared up again. But before he descended into a spiral of self-loathing, he stopped himself and concentrated on steadying his breathing as quietly as possible. He really had to stop being so hard on himself- Rome wasn't built in a day, and one teeny tiny nightmare didn't undo all the progress he'd made in the past week.

_Just think positive, _be_ positive-_

"Sooo..." John took a gulp of lukewarm tea from his First Class we-don't-use-plastic-here teacup, a little wary of Sherlock's tone. "Looking forward to getting back to Baker Street?"

That was small-talk. Sherlock hated small talk. John popped the cup back down into its saucer with a shrug. "Yes and no. I haven't missed the cameras following me around... But I have missed sleeping in my own bed."

Sherlock picked up John's teaspoon and began to twirl it end over end, catching it by the handle each time, a crinkle appearing at the top of his nose. "Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about that."

"Oh?" He crossed his arms, leaning forward on the table between them, a voice on the tannoy letting everyone know that they'd shortly be arriving at London Kings Cross.

Sherlock puckered his mouth with a nod, eyebrows knitting together. It made John smile warmly, automatically thinking back to the day before. After deciding there was no point putting off the inevitable and that they should head back to London, they'd spent their last day on the lake in a rented boat, with John trying to teach him how to fish. Sherlock was spectacularly _bad_ at it, but blamed the fact that his concentration was shot due to running out of nicotine patches.

Sherlock had then spent the evening pouting like an overgrown teenager, in a foul grump about not catching_ anything, _giving John the quite rare opportunity to tease him mercilessly. The grumpy mood had not left until John finally pulled Sherlock into the bedroom and forced him to come to bed. It was a brave move on John's part, and Sherlock had generously complied for once.

John had tried to keep his t-shirt on, ego still sore after the last time they'd been close, but Sherlock had coaxed him out of it, and they'd fooled around... but underlying every move, every touch, was the terrible shadow of the court case looming over them. Moran's name hung in the air like the calm before a storm and it made things very difficult.

_"Can't you just stay here?"_

_"Without meaning to sound like a __cliché, we're stronger together - you even said so yourself! And I'd rather face this head-on, on my terms."_

_"If you're trying to prove something-"_

_"I am. I'm trying to prove something to_ myself_. That this nightmare is finally over. I meant it, Sherlock. I'm not afraid of going back. If I stayed here, I'd be betraying myself... Now, I suggest you drop it. This could very well be the last holiday we have together in a while, I'd rather not spend it arguing anymore..."_

It had felt like both of them had wanted to say something important to each other, but they never did. Then again maybe that was just wishful thinking- Sherlock could look deep in thought about something most people would find banal... like dust or washing up... so it was hard to judge in retrospect.

And yet there was something fundamentally _soothing_ about waking up next to the one person your whole life revolved around. The one person that completed every part that was lacking... The closest he could liken it to was the feeling of coming home. Sherlock had that kind of unshaking certainty about him. And he would not mind waking up to that on a regular basis...

"Yes... I was thinking that we should probably keep quiet about our recent... _development_."

His stomach lurched. John hadn't been expecting that, and his expression must have reflected it because Sherlock leant forward on the table too, flicking the spoon into the abandoned tea. He looked John square in the eyes.

"I'm not trying to offend you. I-" his voice dropped to a whisper, "-_enjoyed_ last night too..." His eyes softened for a moment, and John felt Sherlock's leg rub up against his own as if to confirm it. It went a little way to calming his uneasiness. "It's just that given the current situation, we should probably stick to separate rooms as before. I need to have every ounce of my energy focused on Moran and his possible accomplices in the police force. And you certainly don't need any more stress from the media, or your friends."

"_My_ friends?" John scoffed. "We have the same friends. They are _our_ friends. They're the ones that have been ribbing us the_ whole time_ about being together-"

"And they are the same friends who supported you through my death." John wished he wouldn't use that phrase, clamping his mouth shut. "How happy do you think they will be when they find out I've seduced you when you were vulnerable?" John immediately thought about the nightmare. _Vulnerable_. And this time he couldn't stop the viscous part of him yelling internally. _Needy! Desperate!_ "When the trial is over, and everything has calmed down..."

Sherlock continued to rationalise as John's attention glazed over. It was only half true. The nightmare. They'd stood at the lake that morning before setting off. But the conversation had ended when Sherlock had said he'd hoped John would just stay. There had been no arguments or sneers. They had simply headed back to the train station.

John looked out of the window, somehow crestfallen but determined not to show it. What had he even dared to hope for just then? That they would shack up together like a normal couple? _A couple, oh god yes we're a couple- shit-_

He wasn't sure what he'd expected. He'd just pushed it back, wanting to cross that bridge when they came to it. John hadn't really braced himself for the ramifications of coming out either- a term which still didn't feel quite right now that he thought about it. He'd sort of glossed over thinking about that part in light of everything else that was going on. But now Sherlock was saying that it had to be a secret... Sherlock had said before that he would take John's lead - but he just hadn't thought to suggest that first.

It was completely sound reasoning. It was actually very considerate. It was _definitely_ the best course of action to take.

And yet it _hurt_.

"Fine. _Yes._ No, you're absolutely right. We shouldn't draw any extra attention to ourselves." The holiday was officially over. Back to the real world. "As soon as you start talking, I'll be out of the limelight anyway. Which is just how I like it by the way."

Sherlock drew very still, apparently taking time to choose his words very carefully. "John, it's not for forever-"

"No, sure, sounds good." If he could get his feelings to match his 'I'm not bothered' face, it would be half the battle won. Sherlock on the other hand looked confused. "C'mon, this is us. We'll pop into the chemists on the way home to get you some patches."

As John pulled the bags down off the top shelf he thought he felt someone watching him, but when he looked down the carriage no one was. Everyone was leaving the train now that they'd pulled in to King's Cross; two women talking and facing the opposite way, a man scrolling through his iPhone, and someone right at the far end that he couldn't quite make out from this angle.

No one he recognized...no one even looking in this direction. But it left him feeling _itchy_... Realistically, he was bound to be on edge, after all, his last six months in London hadn't been particularly pleasant with the newspapers and every other nut chasing him down on a regular basis- but there were bigger things to worry about for now. Thankfully, Sherlock herded him out of the nearest exit before he could dwell on it any longer, and even waited for him to adjust his bags instead of sweeping off into the distance like he normally would.

John had to smile as they made their way up out of the station, he'd completely forgotten how authoritative Sherlock could look when against a crowd of 'ordinary' people. They always parted for him, like Moses and the Red Sea. He would have hated that comparison. But the smile didn't last long. Before he knew it, they were caught up in the stream of London life again. Just one of the many thousands of ants crawling over the city. John stayed in the cab when Sherlock dashed out to get his nicotine fix, and they spent most of the short journey home in silence- unfortunately not the comfortable kind either. When they finally pulled up in Baker Street, it was a huge relief to see Mrs Hudson on the doorstep, with her carrier bags of shopping.

"Mrs Hudson!" He nearly fell out of the cab with his luggage he was so happy to see her.

"Boys! Oh you're finally back, how was the holiday?"

_Don't you dare go red._ "It was great. Really relaxing actually."

Mrs Hudson hiked an eyebrow in genuine surprise, looking to Sherlock who was paying the cabbie and back again to John. "_Relaxing?_"

"Well, you know, for us I mean." He smiled and she laughed, giving his arm a squeeze as he added more shopping bags to his load, shuffling into the hall after her. _Home sweet home._

"Oh I have missed you both, it's been an _awfully_ quiet week... Took three days for those newspaper people to take the hint and get off my doorstep though." A brief jangle of keys and they were soon in to Mrs Hudson's apartment. John glanced behind him, seeing Sherlock run straight upstairs with a brief call of 'Mrs Hudson' as acknowledgment.

"Yeah...I should imagine they'll be back again for a bit, just until the trial is over...sorry about that."

"Oh I'm not really bothered, dear, I know you and Sherlock have it all in hand."

He gestured over his shoulder, "sorry about him too, he's on a patch dash."

She laughed again with a shake of her head, then suddenly paused her unpacking, stepping closer to him. She had a warm smile but her eyes were deeply concerned as she took his hand and patted it between both of her own. "You look so much better than when you left. Finally got some colour in your cheeks- and those sharp eyes are back!" He squeezed her hand, and she nodded towards the ceiling. "I take it everything is back to normal with you two?"

"Yeah...we-" A mental image of Sherlock spanking him flashed through his mind, guiltily, "-worked it out." _Christ_.

"Good good," a final pat and she turned back to unpacking, muttering under her breath just loud enough for him to hear. "Some people are just meant to stay in pairs."

It was little comments like that that made him remember Mrs Hudson was actually extremely perceptive when she wanted to be. He was still thinking about it when he managed to sneak away from her apartment with a promise of a tea and a catch-up later on. He didn't bother stopping off to see what Sherlock was doing in the kitchen, he just trudged all the way to the top floor. He dumped his bags on the bed to be sorted later, but locked his gun and the extra clip in the top drawer of his bedside cabinet.

It was half six, and he had some overdue check-ups to see to. It only took a few minutes to refill his makeshift doctors bag with supplies from his safe. The contents had dwindled significantly, but nothing seemed to be missing, so atleast Sherlock hadn't helped himself after working out the combination.

He perched on the edge of the bed with a sigh, snapping some medical gloves between his fingers. What was he going to do after all this was over? Would he renew his license? Or would there be enough freelance work after the trial to pay the bills?

They didn't have to worry about rent anymore. It was cheap enough to begin with, but whilst Sherlock's life insurance money had to be reversed, with a heavy penalty, the building had been paid off by some of the investment money that had been closed out from his estate. There was no reversing that. Not that he thought Sherlock would want to.

Come to think of it, did Sherlock even want his help? The future wasn't exactly an easy topic to broach with Sherlock continually descending into frozen silences. The only time Sherlock had really spoke on the train journey home, he had been trying to make arrangements with Lestrade to give him access to personnel files for all staff who had been in contact with Moran. But he kept hitting read tape at every turn. Conflict of interest. He'd gone back into an irritated silence, and John had eventually dozed off.

And now here they were, back at Baker Street, back to whatever was left. They had never been so close and yet so far apart before. What if everything went fine, what if Moran was convicted and Mycroft made him disappear? What if the leak was found at Scotland Yard? Then it just left _them_.

Sherlock had said it wasn't going to be a secret forever, and he was right. He just hadn't imagined he'd suddenly feel wounded by the secrecy. A few days ago, the thought of a people talking about them was driving him mad, but now...

John felt the doubt return...What if Sherlock got used to pretending things hadn't changed? He practically bragged about his ability to erase useless information, so where did that leave their most recent adventures?

He pursed his lips at the thought, shoving the gloves into the side pocket of his bag. They would be back to square one. Could he handle that? Going back to the detective and blogger routine?

The blog. His blog. Now there was a thought to distract himself with.

Picking up the bag, he jogged down the stairs, heading into the living room. He swung it gently on to the coffee table before going over to the larger one by the window, digging through the books and boxes that were piled up on top.

"I wouldn't bother with it just yet. High chance that it's been bugged aswell." Sherlock said, walking into the livingroom, swinging his suit jacket back on.

John failed to prevent a few medical journals sliding off the side, which tumbled on to the floor as he yanked out his dusty laptop. He turned it over in his hands. "I dunno... It looks the same as when I left it last... it's even still got the warranty sticker over the cover on the back."

"Missing it?"

"Missing what?"

"Writing."

John smoothed the dust off of the edges that had been exposed, sitting down at the table. "I miss the life that went with it." He replied with a nostalgic smile, flipping up the lid. A folded piece of paper wafted out from on top of the keyboard, landing at Sherlock's feet. He picked it up before John could snatch it back, a look of resignation on his face as Sherlock lifted it out of reach, opening it with a flourish.

"Why do you have a printed photo of you and me at the Gaffeture's Society Ball?" John didn't feel like explaining that it was one of his favourite photos, the two of them side by side in suits at the awards event. John was smiling broadly and Sherlock was giving just a hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

"I forgot that was in there..." He muttered, jamming his index finger into the on button to no avail.

"Yes, but that doesn't answer my- oh, _look_ at your stupid grin." Sherlock waved the picture in his face and John rolled his eyes.

"That 'stupid grin' is what us normal folk call 'pride.'"

Sherlock scoffed. "What was there for you to be proud of? I seem to recall you were gallivanting around with Sarah during most of the - what did you call it?"

"The Case of The Azure Glass-"

"Yes, that one- in which you contributed _very_ little."

"Uh, working, Sherlock, not 'gallivanting' at all, but _infact_, paying the bills." He decided he could fiddle about online later, it needed to charge anyway. "And I was proud of _you_, not me." He added, closing the laptop, drumming his fingers on the lid. "I always have been."

John only realised he'd said the last bit out loud when Sherlock touched his shoulder, a small touch, one that John wanted to reciprocate but couldn't after their earlier conversation. For a split second, he didn't dare look up, because if he did, he'd do something stupid... like say the L word. He worried it would come across as puerile and grating. _Inadequate._

He thought of the nightmare on the train, the memory twisting in his gut. Concentrating on the trial and the Yard would be good practice to reign in some of the unruly affection he was feeling. It was natural though, wasn't it? After all the lows, he was bound to feel overwhelmed by the highs. There was so many possibilities left teetering in the balance... it was hard to think.

John released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding as Sherlock pulled away, putting the picture on the mantle piece tucked in behind the skull. He sighed and got up to retrieve his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. He was already half way through the doorway when Sherlock lurched towards him, an arm outstretched.

"Wait, where are you going? We just got back."

He raised his bag slightly, "you know exactly where I'm going."

"But Lestrade is coming over."

"So?"

"So, we're waiting for him."

"No, _you_ are waiting for him- I have other people to see." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and John gave him a pointed look. "Still worried about me?"

Sherlock's eyes actually wavered, a slight pause before replying. "I just think we should err on the side of caution."

"Moran is in a maximum security jail cell right now. Not much of a threat from where I'm standing."

"Don't make that mistake." Sherlock crossed over to the window, fingers brushing the nets back, looking out. "Don't think that just because you know where he is, that you are out of his reach. With a teacher like Moriarty..." He trailed off, lost in thought, face pale against the street lights that flickered into life. The evening settled in quick this time of year. John stood there for a few seconds, waiting for him to continue but Sherlock just stared out.

"_Oookay_. Well, I still need to go. I'll only be a couple of hours. Alright?"

No response. The nicotine must have kicked in, as Sherlock's hands raised to his mouth slowly in the prayer form he often adopted whilst deep in thought. John felt a sadness tug at him, but sucked it up, leaving him to it as he headed down the stairs. He only hoped Sherlock snapped back by the time Lestrade arrived or that would be an extremely dull catch up for the Detective Inspector.

Out on the street he stepped up to the curb and hailed a cab, briefly glancing up to see Sherlock staring across the other side of the road before putting the nets back in place. As the cab pulled up, John strained to see what he'd been looking at. But apart from a car pulling away from the opposite curb, and general street traffic, there was nothing of note. Sherlock had probably just zoned out.

Although the ease at which he'd managed to slip away from Baker Street did make him wonder... Technically they'd agreed on him 'following orders' when they reached the court, but that thought didn't stop him from looking behind the cab occasionally, suddenly quite paranoid.

He even resorted to getting out of the cab early, walking the last ten minutes to The Ratway. It was only after he paused for a _second_ time to check behind himself in the reflection of a car window, that he realised how ridiculous he must have looked. _Get a grip, no one is following you!_ Two more turns and a walk down a gravel side-road between two disused warehouses, and he was soon at his destination. The Ratway tunnels. It was so dark he had to get his torch out to enter.

He was actually running quite a bit of a risk going down so early, as there was always the chance of bumping into curious volunteers. But he really couldn't put it off, especially as his trip had been so last minute, keeping him away longer than he thought it would have.

Familiar faces popped out from under a couple of the makeshift cardboard box homes lining the walls, a few shy nods in greeting, even the occasional hello.

He moved over to his usual spot, by the old crisp boxes, which seemed largely untouched. John had learnt early on that it was better to let people approach him rather than encroach on one of the little homes unless it was absolutely necessary, as it could get a quite territorial at times.

John fell easily into the basic examinations he did over the next hour, sterilizing a few scrapes and cuts, portioning out some over-the-counter painkillers... but this time when each one was done he handed out a card with the details and directions to the nearest homeless-friendly clinic. He'd given them out before but this time it was different. And it must have showed.

"You going somewhere, doctor?" Hector asked, after John had handed him the card. Hector was the old man who John had treated for a deep cut on his leg a couple of weeks ago. He narrowed a critical eye at John, but all he could do was force a smile back, although he knew it didn't reach his eyes.

"I hope not...but either way I can't do this forever. You need to get yourself to a proper doctor for regular check ups."

"You are a proper doctor."

"_Yes,_ but I mean, a doctor with the right facilities that doesn't have to sneak about under the cover of darkness."

"Ah right, and I s'pose the 'right facilities' makes someone give a damn like you do?"

John left it at that, unable to respond. He'd hardly had an altruistic motive for going there, even for all the trouble it could still land him in. John went there originally to feel useful, to stay distracted from his own problems. So he should have corrected Hector, should have told him he wasn't as selfless as he assumed...but he couldn't.

After he'd finished with him, no one else approached John for more than fifteen minutes, so he decided to head home. He was taking off his gloves when a woman in her mid twenties shuffled up, a shy smile on her face. "Hi Doctor Watson." He recognized her immediately.

"Alice, what are you doing here? I thought you were down at the hostel now?" He slid over so she had a space to crouch down next to him on.

"Oh I am. Just visiting a friend." Even in the poor lighting he could see that her dark skin was healthier looking than when they'd last met, and her eyes were brighter and more alert. Alice was clearly getting more meals than she had been getting last time they met. She glanced over her shoulder at a figure nervously tapping their fingers on a water bottle on the other side of the tunnel. "Me and Alfie both are."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it." Seeing the smile on her face and the slightly averted eyes he could tell she was smitten, hugging her knees like a teenager with her first crush. He wondered if he looked that love-struck when Sherlock was around. _Oh for God's sake concentrate!_

"I was just wondering...whilst I've caught you...do you have any of those-" she squeezed her thumb and forefinger together and mouthed 'little pills.' She meant contraceptives. Alice smiled apologetically. "I lost the name of the clinic you gave me, so we've been holding out."

"Well, I can give you a new card." He rummaged in the side pocket of his bag. "Like I said before you just have to register a name and your age, but other than that it's a type of no-questions-asked place. As for pills, I don't have any to give you, and even if I did you know I couldn't. You have to get a proper check up for long term medication like that."

"Yeah, I know, I remember." She took the card, tucking it into her sleeve.

"But I do have these..." John whispered, slipping her a small packet of condoms. "They'll protect you better until you can _both_ get checked out." He said, giving her a meaningful look on the 'both' part.

"Thanks, Doctor Watson, I really appreciate it." She rose to leave but John stopped her.

"Um, before you go, how's Will doing?"

Her brown furrowed. "Who?"

_Weird._ He thought they were friends. "Dark reddish hair, brown eyes, a little taller than me-" _alot taller than me._ Alice looked upwards trying to remember. He started to flounder for more descriptive traits, now would have been a good time for Sherlock to unleash his incredible attention to detail, had he been around. "Um, calls me 'Doc'? He sprained his ankle recently-"

"Oh, _Limpy!_"

"Yeah, fine, Limpy." There were worst names he supposed. He hoped he appeared casual and not nosy when he continued. "How's he doing at the hostel- has he started the new job yet?"

Alice gave him a bewildered look. "He got a job at the hostel?"

John definitely hadn't imagined the last time he'd seen Will. Every awkward detail was etched into his mind, and coming back to The Ratway had given him a strong need to end things on better terms. He swallowed, but thinking about it, he was in danger of opening up a huge can of worms...he'd protested so adamantly that Sherlock and he weren't an item after all. _If he found out- _John's thoughts were interrupted as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, pulling it out as he continued. "Yeah, I bumped into him-"

_Come back. - SH_

"-about a week ago. He'd just got out of an interview." He ignored the text, watching Alice shake her head slowly.

"Doesn't ring any bells...I haven't seen him since he twisted his ankle a few weeks back. If I bump into him though do you want me to tell him you were after him?"

John got a sinking sensation in his gut. The hostel was only small, so there really was no way Alice would have been oblivious to a new member of staff, especially one earning a bed with his keep. Had he lied? Or just dropped off the map? It wouldn't be the first time this had happened to someone he knew from the homeless network, but this time he felt guilty about it. What if Will had disappeared because of him?

"Uh, yeah, if you could. I'd appreciate it. He knows where to find me." His phone went off again in his hand as Alice looked back towards Alfie. He clicked open the message.

_The date has been moved. Trial starts tomorrow. - SH_

John blinked at the screen in disbelief, not prepared for that idea. He'd have to put his plan in to motion quicker than he thought.

"Alright, well, thanks for the card. See you around."

The rattle of a can being kicked up against a wall reverberated loudly down the tunnel, actually startling him. His eyes darted to the exit, spotting the silhouette of two men in deep conversation. John couldn't stop himself from tensing with suspicion, grabbing his bag off the floor. Head held high, shoulders back, he set his eyes on the exit.

"Yeah, I hope so..." He whispered, texting back with one hand as he got to his feet.

_On my way - J_


	17. Chapter 17

WARNING! WARNING! THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING! Not to spoil anything but this chapter is X-rated. This is the path to full man-on-man action. Please be aware that if you continue to read this portion of the fic, I cannot be held responsible for any surprise hard-ons or lady boners that may occur as a result.

On a serious note, please be sensible - if you are offended by homosexual displays of affection and sexual drive, or if you are against themes of a dominant/submissive nature, I would not advise you to continue. This is just a fanfiction, so let's just have some angsty fun okay? [whispers] Please note: just putting it out there that I refuse to write prostate because it is extremely unsexy [dies a little inside]

As usual, a big shout-out and HUGE thank you to my supporters- I can't single any one of you out but you should all know that this story wouldn't be here today if you hadn't encouraged me to continue. This fic has really become an intense attachment in my life and I'm really just amazingly grateful that you all followed me through it. I know these things are hit and miss but there is alot of important dialogue in this section, so I hope you can all enjoy that part atleast. Much love! Now -_ on with the show! _

**Chapter 17**

The first three days of the trial went without incident. The media frenzy was so Hellish going in and out of the Old Bailey, that every time the court doors had swung shut behind them it was almost a relief. But they couldn't avoid scrutiny even there. They hadn't given any testimony, but it didn't stop the courtroom artists capturing Sherlock and him side by side for the news. He would have been flattered by the likeness, if they weren't usually attached to some inane report alluding to the details of the trial or their reunion.

As for Moran himself, he showed real diligence in imparting only minimal answers -if any- staring resolutely ahead for hours on end. John could practically see the battle of wills in the air, let alone feel it. Lestrade was the only other person apart from John, who recognised that whilst Sherlock's body sat quietly in the gallery with them, his eyes bore into the back of Moran's head with an intense fury that betrayed the activity of his mind.

John knew he was trying to absorb every single detail that he could, in the hopes that it would help answer the questions that were keeping him up all night. But if he'd made any discoveries, he'd kept them to himself. John had been up too ofcourse, finding it hard to get any rest because of the weird routine they now found themselves in. He'd also had more than enough opportunities to voice his fears over the sensation of being followed, but he never took it. Partly because they_ were_ usually being followed by groups of people, and partly because he was worried that Sherlock would be dismissive. His head wouldn't shut up with constant unspoken worries like these, and when there was a reprieve, he usually spent it listening to see if Sherlock would call out to him. But he never did.

The consulting detective meanwhile had descended into an unsteady pattern of brooding in silence, or scaring the living bejesus out of him whenever he got into another blazing row with Lestrade or one of his people, which was fairly frequent. He'd counted five major ones so far - one on the phone and four up close and personal in the living room.

Court had kept them busy, and it had definitely started strong, but Sherlock was on the verge of pulling his hair out over the red tape that bared him from the investigation. Without access to core data, he was still at the speculation stage and it was clearly driving him mad. Lestrade's superiors weren't exactly happy with either of their antics since this whole debacle started- and after all the negative backlash at Scotland Yard, they were definitely not tripping over themselves to pursue a mole hidden in their offices. Especially when Sherlock was less concerned about the police force's reputation and more concerned with a certain crime that may or may not be committed in the near future.

Since their trip, it had been hard not being able to go to Sherlock or be near him the way he wanted. But it had been harder still to know that every time he had his back turned Sherlock was watching him. He was thinking about _it_- about what would happen if John was gone. And how was he handling it, knowing that one of the smartest people he'd ever met suspected that _he_ was in direct and mortal danger? He'd ignored it. John had been living under the constant threat of his own depression and all the trauma that had stemmed from it- he couldn't add anything else on top right now, not when he was getting better.

No, ignorance was definitely bliss. If the future could be accurately predicted, he was the type of man who would say no to knowing his. Sherlock on the other-hand, was the type of man who would not only want to know every detail, but he would actually find a way of changing it if he didn't like it. Unfortunately that strength of character was not something easily transferred on to others. The thing that really bothered John the most though, was when he was alone in bed, wide awake, because then his imagination would kick in. He'd imagine Sherlock coming up the stairs, opening the door and crawling into bed. _'Let's call the whole thing off-'_

It happened only once, the creak of the bottom stair alerting him. But that was evidently as far as he got. The next day, when they sat at breakfast together, Sherlock scolding him for not finishing his toast, John didn't ask him about it. He_ couldn't._

Because on day four, everything changed, and Sherlock couldn't have seen it coming.

When John sat in the dock, finally in full view of Moran as he answered questions to the court, he hoped Sherlock would be too focused on him still to pay any attention to John violating their agreement. It took every ounce of self control not to look up into the gallery to where he should have been sat, but he knew instantly he was in big trouble.

If the force of Sherlock's stare could somehow have been transformed into energy, John was sure there would have been a giant crater instead of a courthouse, and he would have been ash along with everyone else. But there was a plus side to the impending doom- even if he didn't survive Sherlock's wrath after this, Lestrade had promised to posthumously award him the _'Biggest Balls of the Year'_ Award. Which was good of him.

But it was worth every second to be able to stare at Moran throughout it. And Moran, with all the resolve he'd held on to so far, slipped up and looked back.

_Dead._

Dead eyes. Dead skin. Dead voice.

But there was a power in him that seemed to exude out of every pore... even his court appointed defense lawyer, who had barely said a word throughout the trial, spent most of his time leaning away from the man.

When they locked eyes, John was completely calm, replying to a question posed by the judge - back straight and his shoulders set. He saw Moran's jaw twitch and it felt _glorious_ to get even that minor reaction. He answered everything to the court's satisfaction, all the while feeling more powerful and as confident as he had in what felt like years. For a brief moment, John was himself again, before the PTSD had changed him. And it felt good. More than good. Because with every word, every emphatic nod, every calm glance... he was_ winning._

John hadn't cowered in the gallery like Moran probably assumed he would, tucked under Sherlock's wing, because this was his battle too. He was giving him a huge unseen middle finger, a massive _'I do not fear you'_ and there was nothing Moran or anyone else could do about it.

He only wished Sherlock could have shared in the rush John felt when he was directed to leave back towards the waiting room. It was verging on euphoric. He'd done it, just as planned, even with the date brought forward so suddenly. He couldn't sit down he was so excited. But then he caught sight of the time. They would break for the day in twenty minutes, and his heart twisted in dread at the confrontation that loomed ahead of him. He turned his phone back on and no sooner had he done so than a message popped up. Sherlock.

_HOME_

John ran a hand over his face. Not only should Sherlock's phone be off, but he was so furious he hadn't even used his sign-off._ Shit._

Pushing his way out of the courthouse, flash photography popping off in his face, he chanted the mantra: "No comment, no comment-!" All the while wondering if this was the last time he'd breathe fresh air- because he was pretty sure Sherlock was first in line to kill him now. He shielded his face with his hand as photographers ran along the side of the cab, trying to hold on to that feeling...the feeling of triumph. Not over Moran... but over _himself_.

It all passed in a blur, because as soon as the kettle boiled back at 221B, John heard an mighty slam of the front door and the sound of Sherlock taking the stairs two at a time- he must have got out slightly earlier, only a few minutes behind him. John braced himself as Sherlock swept through into the living room, coat flaring, teeth bared. He rounded on John immediately, grabbing him up by the scruff of his jumper with both hands, pushing him back against the table so hard it squealed as it scraped a couple of inches across the floor.

For a split second John thought he was going to get a punch to the face, but he didn't resist. Sherlock towered over him, so completely furious, he could clearly see the whites around his eyes. He gritted his teeth as he was shaken roughly, hands on his wrists. "I'm _alright,_ I'm here, in one piece- _stop it-_"

"We had a _deal!_" Sherlock finally bellowed, releasing him and turning away, pushing his fingers through his own hair in exasperation as he paced about. John stared at him warily, steadying himself... it was going to get worse.

"I know you're angry right now, but I had to do what I had to do. You have to be fair about this, Sherlock. I believed in you even when you told me not to. Even if it's against your better judgement... can't you just do the same for me?" Sherlock bunched his fists open and closed, moving back and forth like a caged animal. "Today wasn't about us, it was about _justice_. Justice for all those who suffered at the hands of Moriarty and his games. I couldn't just sit back and do nothing. And you know you had _no right_ to try and bar me in the first place. I needed -"

"Closure? Don't make me laugh!" Sherlock growled, voice escalating. "After _everything_ I've done for you- you go and _parade_ yourself to the court- in front of _him-!_"

"I was not parading!"

"You might as well have had 'WILLING VICTIM' tattooed on your forehead!" He yelled back, actually red in the face from the force of it. In his uncontrollable anger he turned, and picked up the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be John's laptop-

"I was duty bound to give that testimony, Sherlock!" -and threw it across the room into the wall, wires and all.

"Oh, for_ fu-_" John grimaced as the lid flipped up, hinges breaking, pieces flying, crashing down across the sofa and sliding on to the floor. A lovely dent in the wall not far from the smiley face. With no time to mourn the loss of it, John yanked him away from the TV before Sherlock stuck his foot through it- but he was grabbed back, arms gripped painfully hard. Sherlock wanted to shove him back, but John dug his feet in, standing his ground.

"Without giving a moments thought of what it would do to me if-_ if_- " Sherlock's face seemed torn between anger and betrayal- but John couldn't feel guilty about it, he was in the right this time.

"If what?!" John yelled back. "If I was killed right in front of your eyes?" Sherlock was so incensed that he was breathing heavy, eyes scanning John's face wildly as he continued. "A) That is a ridiculous scenario, _it's a bloody courtroom_ and B) I _did_ think about you."

John shoved free of his grip and pushed Sherlock back away from him into the living room table, angry about his smashed laptop and completely offended that -once again- Sherlock had trod all over that parallel. "_I did_. Weren't you thinking of me when you pulled your stunt? Didn't you do it anyway? I'm looking at the big picture atleast- Mycroft needs a legal conviction before he can start questioning him- before he can get the real information out- make him _disappear-_"

"Oh, just-" Sherlock, looked from side to side, for once completely unable to articulate what he wanted to say. So he threw his hands up in frustration. "-_Piss off, John!_"

"No! _You piss off!_ If you can't even talk to me like an adult." He shot back, and Sherlock actually seemed to get some of his sensibilities back, mouth clenching shut. "_You_ can piss off." John repeated, jabbing a finger in the air at him. "How many bloody times do I have to tell you before it sinks in?! I'm _not_ defenseless, I know how to fight if I have to! And there is more than one way of doing it."

"Ah yes, Mr Capable!" Sherlock sneered spitefully, making John bristle. "Well, that's all well and good now, but aren't you forgetting how I tackled you with just a few_ basic_ judo moves? What do you think a man like Moran is capable of doing?! Because I can guarantee you Moriarty didn't keep him around just to do the dishes!"

"That was different. That was very, _very_ different!"

"How was it?!"

John just snapped. "Well, it wasn't exactly a fight-for-my-life moment - you wanted to _fuck me_, not _kill me!_"

Sherlock's mouth popped open, completely unprepared for that outburst, face frozen. It seemed he was just as stunned at John using the f-word in that context as he was himself. He hadn't even really meant to say that last bit aloud, he was just really tired and freaked out by the argument.

Silence descended on the apartment as they stared at each other...

Eventually, John swallowed slowly, scratching his jaw with one hand, looking down at the floor. "Please tell me that Mrs Hudson is still out." He murmured.

Sherlock ran his tongue across the edge of his teeth, before he finally composed himself enough to reply calmly,"...she is."

"Good, are we done here? Actually, don't answer that, we _are_ done here. I'm having a shower, and then I'm going to have an early night. You've got court again in the morning, so I suggest you do the same."

John watched Sherlock purse his lips together, eyes drifting away from him, to the laptop. Whilst he should have been used to it by now, the speed at which the emotion drained out of his face actually startled John. Sherlock looked at him, face completely blank, before he turned and walked purposefully out of the room, down the stairs and out of 221B as calmly as if he was going out for dinner.

He would have preferred it if he'd slammed the door again.

John sighed loudly, dragging both hands down his face in exasperation, feeling like he'd been hit by a truck. After a few moments of calming down his breathing, he diligently picked up all the little pieces that had broken off his laptop, and piled them up on the coffee table next to the cracked unit. But it wasn't until he hit the shower that the tension began to fall out of his shoulders.

The look of betrayal on Sherlock's face kept flashing through his mind, and it _grated._ He didn't want to feel bad about doing the right thing after Sherlock was the one that had been sidestepping his judgement since he'd returned. It wasn't tit-for-tat. It wasn't._ Stupid, self-centered prick!_

And yet John couldn't help but groan inwardly at how he'd gotten a little bit of a rush when Sherlock had pushed him up against the kitchen table. He chalked it up to little-to-no contact over the past few days, but still he scrubbed himself angrily from top to toe... when the hot water began to run out he barely noticed. Trapped inside his head, he tried to relive his success in court, but his stomach kept twisting at the memory of Sherlock walking away.

The cold seemed to seep right into his bones. Sherlock had been lurking around every corner the whole time they'd been back in London and now he'd abandoned his post and left John to it. He should have felt like he finally had room to breathe, but it was suddenly quite the opposite.

Shower off and towel on, he dragged his belongings up the stairs, kicking the door closed behind him. Chucking his phone on the side, he crawled into bed, wet hair and all, still brooding. How the Hell had he gone from Hero to Zero again so quickly?

_Idiot! Stupid, childish-!_ He frowned into the covers, cursing Sherlock repeatedly and wishing just as hard that he'd stayed.

_Sherlock..._

John's mobile vibrated with a loud rattle against his bedside table. He raised his head slowly, picking it up with a groan as the light from the screen nearly blinded his sleep-addled eyes. After squinting and rubbing them repeatedly, he finally read the message.

_I need you -SH_

Another groan. According to his phone it was half 11 and he was really not up for a midnight supermarket dash, or for helping with an experiment or whatever the Hell he wanted. He put the phone down intending to ignore it, but soon enough the memories of their row earlier popped back into his head. His stomach sank.

John had a vague recollection of hearing the front door open not long after he'd got into bed, but it had only been Mrs Hudson returning from a trip out with her friends. Whilst there was no way he could hear what she was saying, he knew enough from the tone that she'd probably been scolding some paparazzi that had returned outside. Other than that, he'd been out like a light, he couldn't even remember dreaming at all.

Against his better judgement he text back.

_Where are you?- J_

An almost instant reply.

_Bedroom - SH_

John actually sat up sharply, thinking for a split second that Sherlock was mucking about and was stood in the corner somewhere, but he quickly realised he meant his own bedroom. He kicked off the covers and his towel, shoved on a pair of boxers and flung on his dressing gown, doing the belt up as he quietly descended the stairs.

For some reason the TV was on even though Sherlock rarely chose to watch it. Some kind of documentary. He would have turned it off, but he just wanted to get this confrontation out the way, cutting through the kitchen to the rear of the apartment.

He pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom, yawning into the back of his hand. "Alright, what's the big emergency? It better start with an apology." Sherlock was sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed except for bare feet. Mobile phone flipping around in his hands, elbows on his knees, looking forward. "I accept cash or card, no cheques." He added drily.

Sherlock clicked his tongue, giving him a small nod. "I'm sorry about your laptop. I'll replace it."

"Yeah, you will."

"You've proved your point." Sherlock conceded, but not without reluctance. "I shouldn't try to control you... But you make it _very_ difficult for me sometimes."

"_I'm_ the difficult one?" John scoffed with a smile.

"I'm just not used to it..."

"Used to what?"

He stopped flipping his phone, thumbing the edge of it instead. "...needing someone." He murmured.

"_Riiight_, yeah. You said." John gestured to his phone. "You need me. 'Need,' as in, I'm ever so useful to have around? Or 'need,' as in, I'm the first thing you think of when you wake up, and the last thing you think of when you go to sleep?"

This made him look up, face open and endearing when he was pleasantly surprised by something. But John was still pissed off. "...You do that?"

"Kind of unavoidable with you isn't it?" John folded his arms with a hard smile, not caring one bit that Sherlock was noting the defensive stance.

Sherlock slowly looked away again, and began tapping the mobile against his mouth as he absorbed this new detail. "I thought it would be easier on you if we kept things quiet... less distractions for me had to work in favour of your safety..." He missed John trying not to roll his eyes. "But now I'm really not sure if it was the right thing to do... You have absolutely_ hated i_t."

"What, and you haven't? Because there's no way you would have gone so ballistic earlier if you really _are_ as emotionally detached as you think you are. You argue for the fun of it, and yet it was easier for you to smash my laptop to bits than to actually talk to me."

"You weren't surprised when I did it though."

"Well, I'm just glad it wasn't my face you decided to break."

Sherlock pinched his lips together, eyes cast down, obviously not proud of what he'd done. John frowned at him, as if that alone would get him to respond, but he didn't. It looked like it was up to him to get the ball rolling again. "You know that I've never done the whole... same-sex thing before... I stupidly hoped it might be...easier? In a way. Two guys and all that... But I'm still ten steps behind you. It's like you're way out of my league or something- _hm_, maybe that's not the right way to put it." He was trying atleast. "Either way, I'm just as confused as I've ever been... one minute you're telling me that I'm your boyfriend-partner-whatever, then the next minute you decide it's all hush-hush. But this was your decision. Again. And I've been left feeling like a complete mug._ Again_."

He finally spoke up. "Is that why you acted out? To teach me a lesson?"

"Only _you_ could see giving evidence in a court as a personal slight. It_ really_ wasn't_._" John pushed his hands through his messy hair, looking up as he recalled his experience sitting in the dock. "It felt so good, Sherlock, sitting there. You think I don't understand how mind games work, but I do. He looked right at me... and I was absolutely fine. I felt like myself again. And you _completely_ missed it because you were pitching a fit in the gallery." He couldn't stop the disappointment showing in his face, the frustration revealed in his voice.  
"What we do is always going to have an element of risk, and I have always accepted that. But you're letting it cloud your judgement." He stared straight at Sherlock, tapping his palm to emphasis what he was saying to him, because he was really sick of repeating himself. "I'm not your next fix. I'm _just_ a man. And I love you, but you've got to let me think for myself or you're going to smother me. You can boss me around in the bedroom all you like, but outside it there's got to be some give and take-"

Sherlock finally looked back at him, brow furrowed. "_What?_"

John gave him a thoroughly harassed look. "Uh, yes, _okay_, I think we've established by now that I'm a closet submissive- can you focus please?"

"No the bit before that. Say it again."

He realised which bit he meant. It had slipped out so casually he'd almost missed it... he wasn't going to take it back, but the way Sherlock scrutinized him now made him self-conscious. He narrowed his eyes, toes fidgeting in the carpet, hands dropping to his sides slowly. "...Don't be a dick about it, Sherlock."

"I said, say it _again._" He demanded firmly, voice slightly raised. John knew then that Sherlock wanted him to say it again because he hadn't been looking at him directly the first time. He wanted to search John for the truth in it.

And it really didn't take much effort on his part, he'd been thinking it enough, it wasn't hard to say it aloud. "...I love you, alright? _I love you._" A shy smile slid on to John's face before it was chased away by something approaching seriousness, and yes, a little sadness. "So stop walking all over me."

John watched him take a shaky breath, a slightly shocked smile on his face before it leveled out. There was that devoted expression again- only this time John thought he saw a little flush of colour on his cheeks. He stilled, trying to remember to concentrate on what Sherlock was saying, not what his body was doing. "Earlier, when you asked me if I believed in you..._I do_. I told you before that I'm better with you. I meant it." Sherlock's brow knotted, pained. "But I'm not like you John. I'm not good, or selfless, or decent... You know that. I never will be. Up on that roof, it finally occurred to me that he was right...Moriarty and I are both sides of the same coin."

"Don't say that-" John began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"John, don't. Just listen to what I'm trying to tell you."

"That sounds ominously close to 'it's not you, it's me_'_ -"

"John!"

He shut up as Sherlock glared at him, but John did not like the way this was going. He could feel the tell-tale prickle of anxiety sweep up the back of his neck, he wanted desperately not to fidget right now, but he could feel his palms sweating. Sherlock looked like he was fairly anxious himself which was even more worrying.

"Don't interrupt me until I'm done." He said calmly. When John nodded, he continued. "I made a mistake. One which you shouldn't be suffering for. I didn't truly appreciate the gravity of the situation I've put you in. I was...blinded by the thrill of return. All the opportunities... the pursuit. Just as you said." Another admission- John's chest felt tight. "But no matter how hard I try, I know it would play out exactly the same if I could do it all over again. Do you understand? My dilemma? I'm giving _you_ the choice, John. The one out of all of them that I should have _actually_ made. There is still time..." He emphasized it with a meaningful look. "...To save yourself."

John's brow creased, shaking his head, feeling crushed and angry all at once. No, this was _not_ how it was going to be. A few seconds passed and John realised he could speak again, his voice thick. "No, what do you mean? There's _nothing_ to save me from, you're not the danger, you _can't_-" He stopped, something suddenly occurring to him, hardening his frown. "...You spoke to Mycroft. Earlier. When you left." Then suddenly disbelief took over him. "You _went_ to Mycroft?"

Sherlock actually seemed a little embarrassed for a split second, but then his cool exterior came back into play. "As much as it pains me to say it...he's been right about alot of things. He's willing to help-"

"Oh yeah I just _bet_ he is...that man changes his mind more often than a traffic light changes colour-"

"He actually speaks very highly of you. He thought you were... good for me."

John's hands shot up, incredulous. "Okay Earth to Sherlock- can you _actually_ hear yourself? You are sounding dangerously complimentary again- and wait a bloody minute, I _am_ good for you. _Present tense_."

He bristled, looking genuinely put-out by how he was reacting. "I'm_ trying_ to do the right thing-"

"Yeah well, I think going on your previous form we should leave that part to me. Because_ I am telling you_ the right thing to do, is to not push me away." John could feel that unruly well of emotion rising up inside of him and if he wasn't careful it would overflow. But he was not giving up on this without a fight. "We stick together. You're not getting rid of me, and you promised you wouldn't leave so there's no point arguing about it."

"Promises can be broken-"

"_Not this one!_" He yelled, and Sherlock actually looked surprised. John lowered his voice, but it still came out in angry bursts. "Dammit, Sherlock... You can't just dump someone after doing the things we've done...and _especially_ not after that someone has declared their love for you." He put his hands up, trying to calm himself. He had to put this into terms Sherlock could understand. Because when it came to feelings, John really was his superior. And right now, he had more than enough for the whole street. "Listen, I know you're scared about losing me. But that's just not good enough. That's just... _normal_."

John knew he still had a chance when Sherlock's gaze flickered, a nervous lick and nip of his bottom lip. He seemed to wrestle with something internally before replying. "...It... is?"

"Yes. _Yes_, it totally is." John tried not to get his hopes up, talking him through it. "It's completely natural to be scared of losing someone you care about. But if we all gave into that, we'd never get anywhere. Granted, it's a bit more..._extreme_ for us, maybe, but it's still totally normal." Sherlock stared at the wall, and John suddenly felt the warning pang in his gut that said '_this is it_.' If he didn't get Sherlock past this block, there was no way things would ever be the same between them. He was going to have to go all out to lay it all on the line. John took a deep breath. "Look, I'm not going to beg you to stay with me because I'm desperate, or because I can't be without you... But I will beg you to stay with me because... you want me to." The idea came so easily to him as he spoke, words lining up with stinging clarity. "Because I'm your first, aren't I? Your first love I mean."

Sherlock's expression cracked. He looked relieved, like a weight had been lifted off him, and that's when John knew he had hit the nail on the head. He was equally stunned by it. Yes, Sherlock had had physical relationships before, he'd admitted that much on their first date, and John had spent a stupid amount of time wondering about it. But Sherlock and emotional intimacy? By Sherlock's own admittance, if his upbringing had taught him anything, it was that emotional distance was a key part of survival. John was his _first. _And it shouldn't have shocked him as much as it did.

But it was the only thing that explained how erratic he was suddenly being. It wasn't cold feet or regret or - thankfully - boredom. It was Sherlock trying to come to terms with giving in to something that made him vulnerable. Something that put them both at a greater risk. His natural instinct was to remove the problem, or when it couldn't be removed, he ran away from it. It was a classic scenario really - someone wanting something and then completely freaking out when they got it. Sherlock was the one that had pursued_ him_ afterall. But whilst the Moran problem was very real, it was also the perfect point to try and distance himself from John- he just couldn't let him make that mistake.

Sherlock didn't know how to do normal, and that was fine, John did. But even with it all laid out between them, he could still refuse. He could disappear... _Don't. Don't you dare. Not again._

The silence was deafening, stretching out between them like a physical pressure pushing in... crushing him. John clenched and unclenched his fists, but was otherwise too scared to move, to even say anything. It was dragging out too long, Sherlock's face was turned away and all John could do was stand there and silently scream:_ say_ _something, say anything!_

_Please!_

His voice cut through the air, low like a tremor and perfectly on cue. As always.

"...Close the door."

It was all in the _tone._ Sherlock turned his head slightly, gaze traveling up him with a renewed focus that was _completely_ indecent. And John just stood there staring back, feeling his face going red. With one heated look, he realised Sherlock was saying yes. To them. To _everything._

The text, his words:_ I need you_. It was so much more than I love you. It was possessive and dark and should have been a glaring warning. _That_ should have been John's cue to cut and run, not Sherlock giving him an explanation and an exit plan.

But he'd got it so very wrong. Because it wasn't Sherlock who was looking for his next fix... It was _John_. He'd been in withdrawal for six months, and now here he was, ready to get down on his knees if he had to -_ please just one more _hit-

John slowly reached behind him without looking, and pushed the door closed, hand gripping the door handle as Sherlock slid his mobile onto the bedside table. He watched with fascination as Sherlock undid the buttons of his shirt cuffs, before moving on to the ones at his front. Fingers careful and efficient as John watched him.

He stayed frozen by the door as Sherlock pulled open his shirt a little...light and shadow catching on the curve of his collar bones... a tilt of his head, and John's mouth opened slightly at the sight of his neck, beautifully exposed.

When Sherlock rubbed the back of it as if to relieve tension, John knew he was doing it on purpose, to get a reaction. And he was definitely having one.

He wanted to run his tongue along that curve. He wanted to know what the hollow at his throat tasted like. He wanted to press his head against his skin and hear his heartbeat. Did it flutter and skip like his? Was it rapid like his mind, or steady like his hands?

John wanted a thousand things at once and forever if he could find the strength, and all it took was three words to confirm to him that Sherlock felt the same.

"Come here _now_."

He didn't hesitate, just crossed the small distance and stood in the space between his open legs. He brushed a hand past those dark curls, before resting it on his shoulder lightly. "Together?"

He nodded, that smile - the one only John got to see - spreading slowly across his face. "_Yes._ Together."

John could have fallen over with the incredible wave of relief he felt. "I swear to God, I will destroy you if you do that to me again." He laughed but it sounded a little strangled.

"Duly noted."

"...No more arguments?"

Sherlock looked up at him through those long lashes, back straightening, hands chasing up the length of his dressing gown belt. It slowly unraveled as he pulled it down with a faint smile. "Not tonight." The knot gave way with a final tug, dressing gown falling open. "...Although I'm fairly certain that you'll be shouting my name again... Does that count?"

John sighed softly, watching him, completely drained by the tension of this latest confession between them. He felt Sherlock run his fingers up the side of his thighs, gently at first before he added some pressure, thumbs kneading into the muscles. The crowding worries and endless background chatter of his inner monologue started to stutter and fragment again in the same familiar way that only Sherlock could cause. It made sense, all this. They made perfect sense together.

He just couldn't understand how someone could be both the wound and the salve at the same time. He probably never would.

"It always counts..."

"And I can boss you about in the bedroom _all I like?_ You'll regret saying that."

"I think I'll surprise you..." He mumbled, feeling the heat of arousal building low in his hips - God, how he's missed this. The _contact._

Sherlock glanced to the side, squeezing the back of his thighs again, rougher, a warning shake. "Don't you think you've surprised me enough for one day?" A thin flash of anger in his eyes. He felt a stab of nerves then, touching the side of Sherlock's face, to try and tilt it upwards so he could bend to him, kiss away that look. But Sherlock had other ideas.

He stood up abruptly, knocking his hands down, surprising John by pressing up against him, before grabbing him by the scruff of his robe. He barely had the time to register the side stepped movement, before Sherlock essentially threw him down on to the bed sideways. He landed with a muffled noise of surprise, all disheveled in the slipping robe. He went to shake it off but Sherlock stopped him with a few sharp words. "Did I say you could do that?"

John froze again, an ache triggered deep inside him. They stared at each other for a few seconds, an unspoken test of dominance passing between them. One which Sherlock would always win, because that's just what John wanted. He frowned shyly, thinking back to the talk at the gun range. _"Sometimes I don't understand myself..."_ But Sherlock understood this part for him...

Backing down, he lowered his head into the crook of his arm, half hugging the bed. Waiting.

He watched intently as Sherlock took off his shirt and threw it on the floor. John sucked in a breath, seeing the shadows play over his lean muscles as he undid his belt and trousers, revealing dark black fitted boxers. Probably designer. _Definitely better on the floor._ Did he really just think that-?

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, kicking off the trousers, kneeling on the edge of the bed with one knee. He tensed as Sherlock grabbed the back of his left calf, "Brave to the point of _stupidity-_" he pushed it to one side, the angle forcing John flat on his belly, "-dangerously stubborn-" fingers swept up underneath the robe, grabbing the waistband of John's briefs, "-_deadly_ when the mood takes you..." he lifted slightly at Sherlock's encouragement, and was suddenly freed of the tight material which was pulled off and flung to the floor. John's fingers instinctively gripped the covers.

The bed dipped again as Sherlock put his full weight on to it, kneeling between his spread legs, the back of the robe just hiding John's modesty. "And yet I just have to give you _one_ look." Sherlock leaned up over the top of him, hands steadied just above the back of John's waist, clearly enjoying the view. "I just have to give you _one_ touch." John felt his knee brush up against the sensitive inside of his thigh, startling a small gasp out of his mouth, muffled against his arms.

"Just have to say a few simple words...like..." He lowered his head to John's ear and whispered, "_I know_ what you want, John." Pulling back up again with a wriggle of his fingers against John's back. His blushes strengthened, breathing elevated. Sherlock's voice almost purred in pleasure, playing havoc with his heartbeat. "And you just fall apart into this delicate, _beautiful_ mess...all blushes and nerves and eyes that plead 'yes, Sherlock, please... please _make me_ feel good.'" Sherlock rubbed his hands up and down the broad expanse of his back, ruffling the creased material against his skin, digging his fingers in slightly.

The sensation sparked a very vivid image of the red hand print Sherlock had left on him before, remembering how much he loved it. That mixture of pleasure and pain. John turned his face away, biting his lip, and Sherlock laughed lightly, sitting back on his heels, palms resting on the rise of his thinly covered rear. "Oh, don't be embarrassed..." He rubbed his thumbs back and forth, the robe bunching and tightening against his skin. "I always wanted to _take you_ this way." His voice was openly possessive and it sent shivers running straight through John's core. "...Make you absolutely _mine_." His words echoed around John's head, eyes wide. "Do you trust me?"

It took him a second to find his words, but he spoke with certainty as he looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. "Yes."

"...Because I don't think the safe word will be much use after we start this."

Last chance.

The thought of Sherlock getting so wound up over John that he lost all sense of reason, and wouldn't even be able to listen to basic commands gave him such a rush of arousal, he had to shift his hips a little to release some of the pressure against him. Sherlock must have noticed the movement, because he quickly reached under him with one hand, his other hand stopping him from bucking upwards. He sighed in pleasure as Sherlock's long fingers moved up and down his hard-on, kneading the base, before withdrawing with a sweeping movement across his balls.

"Well I guess that decides things..." Sherlock whispered with amusement. The sound of a drawer opening, something hitting the bed and rolling up against his thigh, a crinkling plastic noise. John lifted up slightly on one elbow to look over his shoulder, seeing with his own eyes what he suspected was on the bed with them.

Sherlock and lubricant.

Sherlock and condoms.

Sherlock and _him._

The dressing gown slipped off his shoulder, exposing his scar and John felt that moment of panic like before. What if it spooked Sherlock again? He tried to shrug it back on, but he stopped when he caught the look on Sherlock's face. It was nothing short of _stern_. His breath hitched as Sherlock basically jumped on him, forcing him flat on his front, tugging the robe down roughly. Down but not_ off._

John's heart jumped into his throat as his arms were pulled back, Sherlock twisting the fabric in such a way that he could wrap the cord around the excess to keep John's arms pinned back without directly tying him up. Then suddenly, Sherlock was straddling his left thigh, whipping back the bottom of the dressing gown, exposing him in one movement.

"I'm going to make you come so hard you won't be able to do it again without picturing me."

John heard the bottle click, feeling the cool slick of lubricant slide down the cleft of his arse, alarm bells ringing briefly before his arousal swiftly overrode them. He blinked rapidly, trying hard to steady his breathing which was already coming in soft panting sounds. It wasn't about a man and a man, it was about him and Sherlock, gender didn't play into it, especially not when he was again experiencing one of the strongest hard-ons of his adult life. He flexed against the restraint, biting back a 'please' as Sherlock tortured him by slicking his fingers up and down through the lube.

"Ever had someone st-"

"Yes! I_ have-_ would you just-" John moaned into the covers as Sherlock spanked his arse with half lubed fingers- such a satisfying noise, and _sting_.

"Don't. Interrupt. Me." Sherlock commanded, only resuming when John dared to look back at him. The look of superiority on Sherlock's face, as he teased the tight knot of muscle with his finger, testing him, pressing against it- was driving John insane. He couldn't help but wriggle against the sensations, his body wanting to press up and retreat at the same time. He clamped his mouth shut as Sherlock stared directly at him with a faint smile. Leaning back on John's restraints, pinning him still, he pushed a finger_ in._

He knew he had to relax into it, but even though it wasn't the first time someone had done this for him, it was so long ago it might as well have been. John could feel what must have been Sherlock's toes brushing up against the leg he was straddling, and focused on that gentle movement as Sherlock slowly stretched his finger inside him. With long digits like his, it wasn't far for him to reach the right spot, hidden only a couple of inches in. But even if Sherlock hadn't known what he was looking for, the sudden jerk beneath his grip would have alerted him.

"Ah, right _there_..." Sherlock drawled, twisting his finger around so that his thumb could massage the soft skin beneath, slicking his finger in and out, past the resistance.

John pushed the side of his face into the covers, hands clenching as he closed his eyes, succumbing to the varying sensations Sherlock was subjecting him to. "Oh-" A pleasurable jolt. "Sher_lock._" He wanted to arch, but all he could do was raise his free leg to the side slightly, toes pushing against the covers so hard Sherlock swayed momentarily.

"Eager." Sherlock thrust his finger faster, then slower, alternating without warning. He wound John up so much, hard-on rubbing against the covers, that when Sherlock added a second finger John bucked him again. It wasn't long before Sherlock withdrew his hands with a grunt, lifting up off of John so that he could roll him on to his side. "Do you have any idea-" Sherlock grabbed him behind both knees, pulling him more into the centre of the bed, moving him this way and that, until he was finally back between John's legs, who was now facing upwards. "-how _good_ you look like this?"

What excited him more? Being trussed up, arched over his restricted arms, fully exposed and vulnerable? Or, seeing Sherlock's eyes blown wide again, as he finally got to use John the way he wanted?

He barely recognised his own voice as he whispered, "...good enough to fuck?"

Sherlock's eyes locked on to his, mouth parting slightly, stilling. For once, his expression was _very_ telling. He obviously liked it when John swore like that. He pressed his leg up against the side of Sherlock, nudging him gently, face burning. He was going to say it, he was_ actually_ going to say it out loud. "It's... okay. I...want it."

Sherlock let a breath out, closing his eyes briefly, leaving John in suspense for a moment... then all at once he was _on_ him. He pressed up against John, mouths reunited after a near week of deprivation. John moaned into it, unable to control the need to touch him. He struggled against the dressing gown holding him back, finally yanking an arm free, grasping the back of his neck.

Sherlock then braced his hands against the bed, pulling him up a little so that he could get his other arm up in front, both falling back into the embrace. He yanked at Sherlock's boxers, the final piece separating them from being fully skin on skin and he obliged readily, breaking away long enough to kick them off.

What he saw sobered him up a little. John's eyebrows shot up, swallowing nervously as he saw Sherlock's cock for the first time. Well, ofcourse he'd seen it before, he'd also felt it, but he'd never really _seen it,_ seen it- their last encounter had cooled off significantly before he'd really gotten the chance. "Stop thinking." Sherlock ordered, pressing up against him again, turning John's face so that he could lick and nip at the skin along his jaw.

Legs intertwined, John felt his worries sliding away again... winding his fingers into his curls as he turned in against Sherlock's hips, hard-ons finally rubbing together.

And that's when things really started to get interesting, because as it turned out, when Sherlock began to let himself go he still loved to voice his descriptive talents. Because a man like Sherlock could only contain his elation over something exciting for so long. John hadn't ever listened to anything with that amount of concentration as he did in that moment.

"When I came back today and saw you there," he breathed, voice heavy, "I wanted to throw you on that table and take you right then- bent over, one hand on your hip-" he grabbed John's hip, "-one hand in the back of your hair-" John shivered in pleasure as his hair was pulled. "-As I _pounded into you_... I wouldn't even have taken my coat off-"

"Oh _God_-" John breathed, mouth parted in an 'oh' as that mental image paired with Sherlock thrusting up against him, made his cock throb. Sherlock's hand slid lower between them, and John raised a leg up automatically, giving him better access. He held on to Sherlock as two digits were pushed back inside him- fingering him in and out, again and _again._

"Say it." Sherlock whispered darkly. "_Beg me_."

John really had no control over himself, brow furrowed, eyes half closed and finally so horny he would have done much more than beg if it meant getting off. All he could feel was need, and want, and- "Please. _Please,_ Sherlock, _fuck me_."

And Sherlock looked absolutely thrilled by it, watching him with unreserved fascination as John looked back at him, at last completely open to _it._

To desire.

Sherlock released him, hands searching before he found the condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth. It wasn't exactly the most romantic part in this type of encounter but it didn't change his willingness to do it, he just suddenly realised that he didn't associate Sherlock with safe sex at all. He seemed to read his mind as he rolled back over, hugging him up again, pushing John's sweat damped hair out of his face. "Just a consideration..." He kissed him again as his hand lowered down past the fine hair on his belly, making John sigh as he lazily stroked him. "As it's your first time..."

Sherlock lifted up over the top of him, knees kicking John's to the side, lowered back between them again. A pang of fear hit him as Sherlock grabbed his thighs and yanked him a bit closer. It was just fear of the unknown. He kept telling himself that pleasure was pleasure, and there was nothing wrong with sharing that with someone you loved. Fear, and_ surprise_- to really be confronted with that part of himself that he'd kept hidden for so long.

He didn't know where to look as he raised his knees, Sherlock quickly slicking some more lube on them both, before there was suddenly the feeling of something much larger than two fingers pressing up against him_ there_. John clamped a hand over his mouth, to try and lessen the noises coming out, as Sherlock teased the muscle moving his hips back and forth.

"Relax... I've got you. Stop thinking."

John shot him a sharp glance, talking into his hand. "You try_ not_ to think when- _nng_- w-when-" Sherlock pressed his finger tips into his thighs as he levered himself closer in, one nudge at a time, leaving him unable to finish his sentence. Those long fingers inched down, splayed across his hip and wrapped firmly around his cock, pumping it, leaving him speechless.

But all it took was to hear Sherlock moan faintly and it was done, he relaxed enough- a shift, another thrust and John shivered visibly this time. Sherlock must have felt it too.

"John...?"

All he could do was nod that he was okay, and he really was- until Sherlock started to _move_. Kissing his dignity goodbye, he reached for Sherlock with both hands, yanking him down on top of him. Mouth open and panting louder this time as he squeezed Sherlock to him, roughly, instinctively hooking a leg around him as if afraid he might change his mind at any minute. Every pull and grip screamed: _you're not going anywhere,_ and Sherlock did not object.

"Hold on." He breathed into his ear, clamping his arms around John, burying his face into the crook of his neck. John swore as Sherlock began thrusting his hips back and forth, _into him_.

John threw an arm out to the side, seizing a fistful of the covers, the other hooked around Sherlock's neck as he listened to Sherlock whispering how _incredible_ he felt, how long he'd _wanted_ him, how much he _needed_ him -

"W-wait-!" He gasped, hand trembling with the intensity of it, as he let go of the bedding and gripped his shoulder instead. But Sherlock paused only long enough to lean up on one elbow, his other arm tucking under John to arch him slightly as he drove forward again. Another jolt ran through him, that terribly sweet shiver, building, growing- "Oh God- Sher-"

He was cut off as Sherlock pulled his hips back, before pushing forward again- John's hands sliding quickly to grip the back of Sherlock's neck as he moaned through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

"John... open your eyes. Look."

"No- I can't - it's -" _too much!_

Sherlock kissed his mouth, tongues brushing before he pulled away, sitting up out of John's reach. His fingers clutched at the air briefly, desperate to have something to hold on to, eyes cracking open just enough to see Sherlock flicking his curls out of his eyes. He had to resort to gripping the edge of the dressing gown that was still half stuck underneath him, breath excited and very erratic as he bunched the fabric to cover his mouth. His brain was clearly active enough to remember they had a landlady downstairs, even if most of the blood in his body had been redirected elsewhere. Sherlock splayed his legs to the side, still in him, watching John moving against the covers.

"I said,_ look_." He felt Sherlock rubbing the outside of his thigh, before gasping into the swell of pleasure-pain as he was spanked again. His eyes went wide as Sherlock leant over, grabbing him with one hand round the back of his neck. "Watch me _fuck you_ like you begged."

He did.

John's gaze flicked down between them and there was no way to describe the hugely _conflicting_ excitement that flooded over him. At this angle he could just see the length of Sherlock's cock sliding in and out of him, the movement making his own length twitch with every swipe across _that spot_.

After all the buildup, John just couldn't take this visual overload on top of it. Sherlock must have seen the change in his expression as he abruptly increased his pace, thrusting into John harder than before.

Sherlock ripped the dressing gown out of his face, and John realised quickly what he was doing, "Ah- Sherlock,_ don't_-!" he pleaded as his hands were pinned, unable to hide his face as the rush took over him. He tried to keep his mouth shut but couldn't, his cry of ecstasy filling the room as the force of his orgasm exploded through him, come shooting across his stomach and chest in thick, hot spurts.

John tensed hard as the release swept through him, Sherlock continuing to buck into him, only managing a few more strokes before he was tipped over the edge himself. The sound of Sherlock making a small grunting noise, which then rolled into something resembling a deep growl, echoed around John's head as his orgasm followed suit.

He could feel Sherlock shaking ever so slightly as he loosened his grip on John, half sliding to the side of him, head against his cheek. It felt like they lay there sweating and panting in silence for an age...but in reality could have only been a few minutes. John tried to get his thoughts back in line, wanting to say something, but the glow and shock of the orgasm made it very difficult.

It was only when Sherlock stirred against him and reached down that he realised they were still locked together. Credit were credit was due- he never thought he'd come so hard that he'd go slightly numb. He winced as Sherlock withdrew, careful to take the condom with him. John watching him through half-lidded eyes as he moved. The muscles along his back glistened as he rose to his feet and left the room stark naked, presumably to throw it out.

But after a minute or so laying there, staring at the ceiling felt too surreal and weird, so he gingerly sat up, retrieving the box of tissues from the bedside cabinet to clear himself up. Every part of him ached pleasantly, even his toes tingled and somehow he still maintained a half-mast erection. It was like he was twenty again. But in_ every_ sense. Now he felt he understood why his second girlfriend had been so nervous sleeping with him for the first time. And that was when it really hit him.

_Sherlock just took my... virginity._

Or rather, he'd handed it over willingly and with gusto. Because really a finger didn't count, it was very different to a... _you-know-what_. His eyes glazed over a bit as the image of Sherlock moving back and forth replayed in his mind. He swallowed, mouth dry. And now he was sat in the bedroom alone, just the noise of the TV filtering in from the hall.

It wasn't like this was a cheesy romantic comedy and he'd expected them to confess their undying love, falling asleep locked in each others arms or anything... but he couldn't help but wonder what the bloody Hell he was doing. The feeling of bliss took a big hit as he scooted to the edge of the bed and got up unsteadily, one of his hips clicking loudly. _Definitely not twenty anymore_. He began looking for his boxers, which had been flung across the room somewhere, jaw set in agitation. Didn't he realise the gravity of what just happened? This was a _big_ deal. This was a _huge_ deal.

Wasn't it?

He finally located them, yanking them on, wincing as he was too rough over his sensitised skin, but still pissed off enough to shoot Sherlock a disgruntled look when he eventually swept back in to the room...

...carrying two tall glasses of water and ice.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, smiling haughtily, as John realised he'd completely misread the delay. "What? You thought I was all wham, bam, thank you Dr Watson?"

"...Can you blame me?" John whispered, with a strained smile, hands tight at his sides. Sherlock's gaze softened as he put the glasses down on the side, walking over to him. He looked down as Sherlock draped his arms around his shoulders. _Yep, still naked. Still very, very naked._

"Come back to bed..." He whispered, kissing his temple. John leant into him, feeling that terrible bitter-sweet ache in his chest... the ache of a difficult love. "You can give me a first hand rating, since I'll no longer have your emails to sneak a look at."

John shook him off with mock anger, pushing him back on to the bed as Sherlock laughed. The fact that Sherlock had read some of the stuff he'd written to his exs still made him cringe inwardly. "I'm not scoring you,_ you twat_, your ego does not need inflating."

"Speaking of inflating-" He drawled, kicking off the sticky covers and paraphernalia on to the floor, eying John's crotch.

"And this is how I found out Sherlock was a total horn-bag." John said to the air, crawling back into bed next to him, _very_ carefully. He sat back, picking up the glass, fully aware that Sherlock was watching him drink the water in thirsty gulps, ice clinking.

"Can you blame me?" Sherlock echoed back, hooking a leg over one of John's. He would have been blushing again if he still wasn't flushed from their antics. He could still feel the deep ache where Sherlock had been, a strange _absence_ that signified how much had truly changed. "You didn't mind ten minutes ago when I had you squirming on your back." He teased, with a wicked glint in his eyes, yawning.

He stifled a yawn himself, turning the lamp off and plunging the room into darkness, shifting down in the bed.

He pushed up against the side of Sherlock, getting comfortable, before turning his head to his ear. "I meant it, Sherlock. Don't scare me like that. Ever again." His voice was not pleading or whiny... it was hard and serious, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Sherlock tensed against him, his voice suddenly devoid of his usual bravado. Just himself, the secret innocent bit that only John got to witness.

"I won't."

That would have to do. "Night, then."

Sherlock's voice whispered close in the dark. "...Goodnight, John."


	18. Chapter 18

ello my darlings! You are a patient lot, and so supportive OHMYGOD I am completely undeserving of you all. Like you have no idea! I'm more than a week behind delivering this chapter and I feel super horrible about it, but damn, I am supposedly an adult of 27 years and I hadn't really prepared myself for how tough it can be sometimes... [derp face activate] Just know that I'm hugely grateful for all the well wishing through my PMs and tumblr account (thefarfire), and I really hope this chapter was worth it. Again, you know me, I will be editing, but I am pretty happy with the outcome. There's lot of plottage going on, (like nearly 12k of it FUCK I SUCK AT CHAPTER PLANNING) so you might want to gather up some supplies, like food, a tent, maybe a weapon or two incase bandits come along and try to steal your laptop or something...infact maybe get a buddy system going just to be safe...

Anyway, I really hope you enjoy it.

[rubs hands evilly] yes, enjoy this time my pretties... [laughs maniacally]

(FYI: the addresses I put in this aren't real fingers crossed omg, please don't hunt me down if they are. And any branded place names are for effect only and have no affiliation with me. NOW GO READ PLEASE ily).

3

**Chapter 18**

He rolled lazily, turning in towards the shadow that crossed him. Sliding into the slight dip of the mattress, breathing deeply. Behind his eyes dark colours shifted, drifting shapes, whispers and half-forgotten scenes... Stars stared at the trees bowing to the water... He was being pulled by the wrist down an impossible London road in a Scottish town. That face hidden behind a camouflaged mask... Leaves twisting down through the rain. Exhaled breath in the air... _Panting_...

A single gunshot.

John's hand instinctively grabbed at whatever was touching him, face set to a frown of pain before he even knew what he was frowning at. Slowly the details of the person leaning over him came in to view and he relaxed his grip instantly, mind gradually processing that he was a) not in his own room, b) naked except for boxers and c) very_ sore_. He felt like he'd climbed Mount Kilimanjaro or something. He narrowed his eyes as he looked up at Sherlock, stretching against the sleepiness, feeling like every part of him was cracking pleasantly.

_Suspicion_. "...Did you just poke my bruise?" He asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his hand.

Sherlock's gaze flickered. "...No."

The smile slid easily on to John's face as he yawned, voice gravelly from disuse. "You know it's more typical to wake someone up with breakfast, not a jab."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in a black suit that hugged every line like a second skin, a whiter-than-white shirt just visible. His hand paused above John's leg, looking at the fading teeth mark-bruise above the knee, before his palm completely covered it, eyes flicking up to meet John's. It was one small look, expression relaxed, lips parted slightly, eyes searching John... And it brought back all the heated memories of the night before. His stomach seemed to drop away at the thought of it. _Shit_. This was the infamous 'morning after'...

"I didn't mean to wake you like that- you moved and caught my hand."

"Yeah blame the unconscious one..." Making light of the indication that Sherlock had been reaching for him... Strangely, it wasn't the first time he had watched John sleeping, he knew that, but it meant something now. He sat up gingerly, feeling Sherlock's eyes slide down him and back up to his face. He was probably wondering...

"You...okay?" And there it was, the awkward acknowledgment. Looking back on it now, it was probably inevitable that this would have happened eventually, but he wished he'd had more time to mentally prepare himself. But that was chemistry for you, when things escalated between them...it was impossible to stop the momentum.

The only question now was- was it still going now that they had slept together, or had they burnt each other out?

John took a deep breath, cringing inwardly. It felt a bit weird being nearly naked next to him like this. Sherlock hadn't moved his hand and John didn't know where to put his...

He ended up folding his arms across his chest, unfolding them, hesitated about repeating the sequence, before sticking his hands between his legs, leaning forward slightly, shoulders hunched. Defensive. Sherlock's palm was unusually hot on his skin...and scenes from last night flashed through his mind with a wealth of conflicting feelings attached. Anxiety, excitement, confusion, embarrassment, longing, _desire_ - the sound of Sherlock in his head- _"Watch me fuck you like you begged."_

His face started burning, voice strained. He felt _exposed._ "Yep. Fine. You okay?"

Sherlock tilted his head warily and slowly withdrew his hand, a muscle in his jaw tightened as he faced forward, hands smoothing out non-existent trouser-creases on his thighs. "Listen, John... if you have regrets-"

"I don't!" John blurted, the impulse too strong to hold back. Sherlock looked at him sharply, eyes slightly too wide, and John felt that deep ache in his chest, letting it wash over him. Hot and cold. Terrifying in its intensity._ I'm in love with you._ He wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. But he just couldn't do it in the harsh light of day, he couldn't look him right in the eyes and say what he wanted to say...because he was feeling alot of things, but certainly _not_ regret.

He settled on looking at the sheets underneath them, picking at a bit of lint next to him with incredible focus for someone that had just woken up. "You're wrong...I don't regret it. At all." He said firmly. But then he wavered, closing his eyes, voice dropping to a whisper. In all honesty, he just hadn't expected to feel this level of vulnerability. It was like being dropped into unknown territory. There was so much to come to terms with. "I..._loved it_... Alright? I just feel- _well_ - you know it was a big deal...for me - well it was... you know it was my... my first time-" he couldn't stop stuttering!

"Oh, right... _yes_. Yes, ofcourse..." A pause. "But you shouldn't feel ashamed about wanting to be dominated- it's extremely common- _fortunate_ even -" Not helpful. Did he have to sound so matter of fact?

"Okay! Just leave me to die please." John said with a deep groan, laying back down with a roll to the side. "I'm an _old man_, Sherlock. And I never thought that I'd..." He trailed off, remembering the shivers of pleasure running up and down him when Sherlock tied him up in his dressing gown. When those long, canny fingers pushed in _deep_. His mouth went dry, he had to concentrate on not getting a reaction now. _Grandmother's funeral?_ "This is just going to take some getting used to, that's all... As much as I ...want it."

"John..." Sherlock breathed his name into the air as he scooted closer, leaning across him, trying to turn him back around. "You're hardly a eunuch, you've had lovers before me."_ Lovers._.. it gave him a weird thrill to hear him say that. Yes, a thrill and then twist in his gut - he hoped they were really much more than that. "Didn't you say last night -?"

He rolled on to his back looking up at Sherlock with an embarrassed frown. "One did." _She'd just preferred manicures more_, he thought dryly. "It didn't last long. And neither would I have, if I'd been caught on base with a finger jammed up my arse. That kind of pushes against the '_don't ask, don't tell_' thing. I know liking that, doesn't mean- well- it doesn't mean that you're..."

He stopped, because Sherlock was pinching his mouth together quickly, clearly trying not to smirk or laugh or both. And it pulled the smile out of him, breaking apart some of the tension in his face. Gay, straight, bi-curious, whatever- it was really of little consequence now. They were both consenting adults, and trying to label what was going on between them really was pointless. Would a new category change how he felt? Would it stop him wanting this above all other things? He couldn't remember a time when Sherlock looked so... calm. Hm, the description didn't quite fit, but there was a clear change in him. And he'd helped to make it happen. Sherlock had let him.

He reached up and pushed some of Sherlock's curls behind his ear, then moved down, fingers tracing the line of his neck, dipping underneath the collar of his shirt...a rough thumb skirting his collarbone. Sherlock stilled, eyes softening as John touched him. This was them _all over_. From raging arguments, to giggling at crime-scenes, it was actually the looks, the fleeting touches, the '_I know you_' feeling of understanding that passed in the silences between them, that made it all feel so _right_ even though this part was scarily new.

When it came down to it, John didn't need to walk hand in hand with him, he didn't need public displays of affection like hugs or a soppy declaration of love on a Facebook status update. Not when in small moments like this, Sherlock's bright eyes were capable of looking at him like he was _the whole world_. The revelation was awing. All this... all this would be enough. He felt his chest tighten, as he stared back at Sherlock, his best friend, the man that came back to him, the one that he loved._ Get a grip you daft sod!_

"I wish I could stay..." Sherlock murmured, as John pulled away from the touch. Ofcourse, he had to give evidence today, he'd forgot. "It feels extremely rude to cut and run like this after... _last night_." This time his eyes dipped, a sly edge to the way he said those last two words. He was obviously remembering it, no doubt in high definition with a memory like his. It made John want to pull him back down... But priorities came first.

"It's alright. We both know that if you stayed, you still wouldn't be in bed with me right now. You'd have your head stuck back in those files Lestrade snuck out to you." John started laughing as Sherlock's eyes slid to the side slowly, caught out, probably wondering if he should feel guilty or not. This was just how it would be when it was over, Sherlock would still be bouncing off the walls screaming about a case or that he was bored. It was just that now they'd potentially have a few more options to distract him with... _Oh Christ- when this is over-_ "You want me to come with y-?"

"No." He cut John off instantly. Cool eyes set, Sherlock's fingers digging into the mattress next to him as he bore down on John with a sudden serious expression.

He didn't flinch, but he wasn't a fan of the abrupt change either. John could have said something sarcastic like 'take your time,' but it was okay, it was easy to keep his mouth shut and just nod in understanding. After all, he had scared Sherlock into a corner yesterday. As right as he felt he was in putting his testimony forward, he didn't enjoy Sherlock's reaction to it. It really could have turned out so differently. "Well... Just try not to get yourself thrown in jail for contempt again. I'd quite like to see you later."

"Oh really?" Sherlock looked faintly smug. That was good, _very_ good. But as reluctant as he was for him to leave, there was a deadline to meet- court wouldn't wait.

"You better go, before you're late. I've got things to do anyway."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "John, I think-"

He pushed two fingers against Sherlock's mouth in an attempt to shush him. "You'll be out by two, and I need to buy a new laptop." Sherlock made his displeasure at being silenced known by nipping the side of one of his fingers with his teeth, making him pull back sharply with a surprised laugh. "_Ow_, you little-"

"Tell me, does your journey to PC World or wherever you're planning on going, take you past the hostel east of The Ratway?"

John rolled his eyes, grabbing on to Sherlock to haul himself up and towards the edge of the bed, swinging his legs to the floor. That deep ache in the base of his spine, unfamiliar...and yet a strange comfort... Sat side by side, John gave him a shrug and an apologetic smile. "I've got to go. It's playing on my mind. Repeatedly. I told you, it's like he disappeared off the face of the Earth-"

"Homeless people tend to do that."

"Sherlock." A warning tone, he wasn't going to change his mind. "I'm going. And you should too." He gave him a friendly slap-and-squeeze on his thigh and rose to his feet, grabbing his dressing gown off the floor. "I'll be back behind prison walls before before twelve." He added jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

But Sherlock looked less than impressed, smoothing out his suit jacket with a pinched expression as he stood up. John managed to shrug into his robe and thought he'd got through it quite well, with minimal blushing, considering he'd never be able to look at the it quite the same way again... but then Sherlock stepped right into his personal space.

He held his breath, freezing where he stood. Noting how good it felt when Sherlock ran a hand down the back of his neck, a tingling sensation following in the wake of his touch over the dressing gown, right down to his lower back. He glanced up and was surprised to see the shadow of that pained expression again. The one that felt like it had the power to knock him over.

"You shouldn't be so trusting, John." Sherlock murmured sadly, pulling away before John's brain really kicked back into gear. Him? _Trusting?_ His therapist would still argue that point. Damn, and he still hadn't forwarded his new number to her... to anyone. It was a mixed blessing. He hadn't had any cold calls from the newspapers, and they really needed to keep a low profile after the bugging incident. The fewer people knew their new numbers the better for now.

Sherlock turned away without explanation, even when John followed him out into the kitchen. Because he was back to his energetic self, scooping up his trench coat and slipping it on with one twist. "See you at two, if not before." He said simply, wriggling on his gloves as he disappeared into the living room and around into the stairwell. John watched his shadow go past the glass in the kitchen side door, and sighed, shoulders sagging as he leant against the kitchen sideboard.

So ofcourse, he practically jumped out of his skin when the kitchen door popped open and Sherlock crossed to him in two easy strides, grabbing his face in his leather-clad hands, bending to him for a quick, hard kiss on the lips. Not even one objective thought or impulse crossed his mind as he returned it, feeling dazed. When Sherlock pulled back with a smile and a wink, then dashed out of the door again, the exchange was so quick he wondered if it had even happened at all.

He blinked, tongue licking over his bottom lip as he stared at the door, listening to the footsteps thundering down the stairs. There was the sound of the front door opening, followed by desperate voices shouting out the same muffled questions, before it slammed shut again, leaving the apartment in relative silence.

It took all his willpower not to go to the window to watch him leave.

Morning tea passed in an absolute blur and taking a shower was just as bad. Even turned to the Baltic-Sea-Cold setting, it did not lessen the memory of fingers pressing_ in_ on him... He could still feel Sherlock's grip behind his knees as the water flowed down. And he still remembered with stunning clarity the sensation of teeth grazing along his throat...

The sound of Sherlock _coming_.

"Alright! Enough, _enough_!" He muttered aloud, trying to shake himself out of the just-got-laid haze that was settled over him. When he could stand it no more, he got out, dried off and rooted about in the cabinet looking for his electric razor. And that's when he caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror.

Again, he was struck by his utter inability to recognise himself, even if just for an instant. But this time the surprise was a pleasant one, because instead of looking drained and withdrawn... he actually looked happy. He wasn't exactly grinning from ear-to-ear, but his whole demeanour was different._ Brighter_. The past few weeks had been awash with emotional highs and lows, but today was the first day where he could say: I am pretty content.

Which was why it was even harder to ignore the situation that still dwarfed them both. Even without Moran in the picture, this path that they'd put themselves on had changed everything. Yes, over the years people had joked about their partnership, or genuinely assumed that they were together, but whilst he was making no grand plans announcing that it was now true, there would be times when it would come up and that was a daunting prospect.

_"...they are the same friends who supported you through my death. How happy do you think they will be when they find out I've seduced you when you were vulnerable?"_

It would be water off a duck's back for Sherlock, but it would be much more difficult for him to handle. It wasn't going to go down well with everyone. He was thicker skinned than people gave him credit for, but that was because he felt too much about things. He didn't much like confrontation. He hoped it would be easier than he felt it would be. But there was time to worry about that later.

As he shaved, he thought about their first kiss - _The Kiss_ - in the living room, and about how angry and hurt he'd been at finding out Sherlock was alive. How he was the last one to know. And yet he'd stayed, unable to turn his back on him. Furious and elated all at once.

Getting dressed was much the same, only this time he thought of all the little moments when he knew that Sherlock was being evasive and distracting on purpose. All the secrecy. The yelling. The fights.

...The _making-up._

He smiled ruefully. Sherlock thought he was so above emotion and yet he was capable of great passionate _bursts_ of the stuff. This was hard for both of them, and it always would be. But as he buttoned up his coat jacket and stood at the bottom of the stairs, even as the paparazzi chattered behind the front door, he knew that he'd never give up all this. Not without a fight.

He thought of the look on Moran's face as he stood in the docks. Dead.

And _patient._

John shook off a strange shiver that passed over him just as Mrs Hudson opened the door to her flat. He straightened up automatically, like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong. "Morning Mrs Hudson."

"John, dear, glad I caught you!" She dipped back inside, waving for him to follow, which he happily did, pushing the door to a near close behind him. "Look at these." She practically shoved wad of papers under his nose, but he managed to grab hold of it enough to get a proper look at it. It was a mini-catalogue on a sale of outdoor clothing at the superstore not far from where they lived.

"Ooh lovely-" He spotted the cable stitch jumpers straight away as he flicked through. _Never have too many of those-_

"Mrs Forster's niece works there, so I thought I'd pop in for a catch up. Just wanted to know if I could pick you up anything, what with it being a third off?"

This wasn't the first time she'd gone out of her way to get him the things that he wanted, but be it the vulnerability of the last few hours or something else entirely, he felt taken-aback. Oh, at first she'd kept up the old pretense of saying '_not your housekeeper_,' but as his depression and PTSD had worsened, he'd come to rely on her _so much_. And he'd never really appreciated it until now. Even with the building paid for, he really felt like he could never give enough back to this wonderful woman, who was more a mother to him than his own flesh and blood.

She laughed in surprise as John wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close. "Well, I know you like jumpers but there's no need to squeeze the life out of me-" She teased, hugging him back. He felt a bit sheepish when they pulled apart, but she just beamed up at him, one hand giving him a reassuring squeeze on the arm. "Everything's going to be just fine, you'll see. He'll come around."

"Who will?"

"Sherlock, silly! You've been like ships in the night these passed few days. I thought things were sorted between you? _Oh!_ You're both just_ so_ stubborn!"

"No, no, everything's fine. It_ is_ all sorted. We've just got to get through the trial, and, well that's it. Back to normal. If you could ever call it that..." She seemed thoroughly happy about the news, clutching the booklet between both hands. Now was just as good a time as any he supposed. If anyone should know, it was her, and he'd rather face things head on than sneak about. He rubbed the back of his neck, voice dropping to a whisper. This was awkward. "Which is why I should probably apologise if we made alot of...noise. Last night." He winced, he'd meant to sound casual, but he really didn't.

"Oh, don't worry about me, I was out like a light after one of my herbal soothers, plus sometimes it's better to get it out of your systems you know. Better than keeping it all _bottled up_-" she said, voice lowered as well. He blinked, she didn't seem to catch his meaning at all.

"No, I meant...well...there's no easy way to say this. Only I feel I should, um, warn you." Mrs Hudson looked up at him in complete bewilderment as he tripped over his words. "You know, to save embarrassment-" which he was surely going to die of right now. He looked up to the ceiling, frowning at it. "It's- well - from now on, I just... wouldn't come into the flat if the doors are_ closed,_ is what I mean. You may want to...steer clear." The whispered words hung in the air between them for several moments before he finally chanced a look at her.

She had the booklet covering half her face with just a pair of smiling eyes staring back at him over the top. He could tell just by the way she was trying not to laugh that she already knew, and had probably been trying to spare his feelings. He must have looked as flustered as he felt, because she started waving the booklet around emphatically.

"Oh _come on_, he whisks you away for a week, then you come back and it's all secret looks and sly glances. He watches your every move like a thirsty man looks at a glass of water-"

"_Mrs Hudson!_"

"It's _true_." She laughed, nudging his arm, and he couldn't help but laugh back. "And you're just as bad. Oh, I did hope this would happen, you were so grief-stricken..." John bit his lower lip, nodding at the memory of it. He'd never forget how much that hurt. "So come on, I saw you eying up the cables- any colour preference?"

"Oh you know, something to bring out my masculine side- got any in fuchsia?"

She tittered, rolling her eyes. "What about a lovely slate grey?"

"I'll leave it up to you. I'm off to track down a friend."

"Okay, well mind how you go past the vultures."

He still couldn't get over how persistent some of the reporters and paparrazi were outside their door. And it was likely to continue way beyond the trial. He actually ended up having to pay double for his cabbie to take a longer route to the hostel, to avoid being pursued by a particularly tenacious pair of photographers. But when he finally reached his destination, he was baffled by what he found.

"You haven't offered a job to anyone in _two years_..." He repeated flatly, leaning against the sign-in desk.

Large brown eyes stared up at him with an incredulous expression. "Well, we're hardly rolling in money. It's all donations, and you have to be on the McCreary Rehabilitation Scheme to qualify for anything in lieu," the manager huffed, lifting a box up on to the desk. Donations.

"So...you don't know a young lad by the name of Will?"

"I've got a Wilber, who is about fifty years old, but no red-headed youths." She wiped off the dust from her dark cheeks with the back of her hand, looking at him expectantly. "We get alot of missing persons queries down this way, so I make a point of getting to know everyone here. We've got twenty three residents at the moment, and not one inch to spare to a live-in worker. If you had a photo or something, I could have passed it round. So I'm sorry, but unless you have a donation or something, I really must get on."

"Yes, sorry. Well, I really appreciate you taking the time-" he rifled in his pockets and slipped a fiver into the collection box she held out to him, "-to speak with me. Thanks. If you come across anyone matching the description-"

"I'll call." She finished with a smile, tapping the card he'd given her.

Well, this was unexpected. _Why on Earth would he lie?_ John asked himself, frowning against the daylight as he walked back on to the street. _He was wearing a bloody suit..._ He chewed his bottom lip, heading back to the main road. It was coming up to half ten. He could have caught the bus, or the underground, but mixing with the public up close and in confined spaces was not his idea of a good time. He should have got another cab, but he started walking instead.

He turned down on to the main road, putting his collar up against the chilled London smog, falling in step with the pedestrian traffic. It would take him nearly an hour on foot to go to the electronics store where he'd previously bought his now-smashed laptop- he would actually pass many on the way but he preferred to buy from suppliers he'd used before. Plus a solid walk was great thinking time. Or atleast it would have been if he could shake off the tension in his shoulders.

John glanced behind him, but it was far too busy to hope to catch out anyone that might have been watching him. Still, he couldn't shake it. The hairs on the back of his neck were suddenly standing up, just as they had back in the forest, and again on the train back to London. He had no way of gauging if the heightened awareness was due to paranoia or reality, especially after being thrust into the limelight like he had. The whole thing with Will was also driving him crazy- he couldn't shift the feeling that he'd forgotten something important, some small detail that would point him in the right direction... He'd hoped the hostel would have been the way to go, but it was now just another dead end.

Maybe if he pressed Sherlock a bit more, he'd relent and help him look. But it wouldn't be for another couple of weeks. It was Friday now, but they still had another week before the jury had to come to a verdict. Outside of their developing relationship, the trial took up all his remaining energy and focus - Lestrade had tried tempting him with other things that he needed help on but he'd refused again and again. John was actually pretty surprised that Sherlock hadn't resolved to more devious - and substantially less legal - methods of evidence gathering. But then, how did he know he hadn't already?

He crossed a junction, before pausing outside Maplin's, looking at an offer they had on a notebook. It was smaller, but the price was really very good... but his thoughts soon wandered.

_"You might as well have had 'WILLING VICTIM' tattooed on your forehead!"_ The sound of his laptop smashing against the wall reverberated through his mind as his gaze drifted up, looking into the reflection of the world buzzing past behind him.

Someone was looking at him.

Stood in the alleyway opposite, in shadow, but definitely facing him.

He didn't even have time to turn to look, because as soon as a lorry drove by, the figure was gone. It could have been coincidence, London was a busy place afterall, even during work hours. But what wasn't coincidence was the two security cameras on the side of the offices above turning around to look at him. It was surreal, this feeling. Knowing what he knew about how this city worked, with all it's invisible puppetry... it's citizen's oblivious.

He didn't bother to move, because within another two minutes a long black car pulled up on the curb, window rolling down. He looked to the sky as he walked over, fists clenched at either side. Just what he needed on his back right now, the whole bloody government.

"Fancy running into you here!" That ever familiar fake smile stared up at him.

"Mycroft. What a _lucky_ coincidence."

"Before you start to make a fuss, I'm going your way. Hop in." The door swung out, narrowly missing his legs, as Mycroft retreated further back into the car.

John gritted his teeth, wanting to tell him to fuck off but deciding against it at the last minute, no point in exacerbating things. "How good of you." He muttered sarcastically, sliding into the seat and pulling the door closed behind him. Mycroft was as efficient as usual. So efficient today, that he'd done without his lovely-but-icy assistant, who was nowhere to be seen.

"We're both very busy- well,_ I_ am - so I'll cut to the chase. You're being followed."

"I actually spotted you a mile off. Twitchy cameras, ominous looking blacked out car crawling towards me...dead giveaway. " Mycroft gave him such a sardonic smile he almost laughed out loud but managed to reel it in.

"You haven't said anything to Sherlock?"

"You haven't either?" He shot back. It was a gamble, they really could have said anything to each other yesterday and he would have been none the wiser. But when Mycroft didn't reply, he sighed in resignation._ Might as well get this over with._ "In all likelihood he knows, and doesn't think it's too much to worry about, or he doesn't know and it'll just give him more of a reason to try and keep me locked up in Baker Street if I say anything."

"He's always been so very_ possessive_-"

"This _isn't_ a joke, Mycroft." He snapped, staring resolutely out of the tinted window. He had to keep him on topic. "You don't know who it is then?"

"A man that keeps himself well hidden, always hooded, covered up." Various images of potential stalkers over the last two weeks flashed through his mind, including his most recent encounter. It was worrying how many he could list. "He's been on your trail as far as we can tell since atleast a week ago, when you came back from your trip, possibly longer."_ Deer screaming, a bullet in the ground - the masked gunman._ "I did wonder if he was one of Moriarty's old lot, but they all watched you like a hawk even at 221B. Packed up and left shortly after St. Barts infact. This fellow however...well, he _disappears_ every time you go inside, regardless of whether Sherlock is around actually... Doesn't fit the old pattern at all."

"Well atleast I can rule you out as being responsible. No offense." There had always been a chance that Mycroft had taken things further... He still wasn't convinced that the photos of them hadn't been from one of his shady sources.

"None taken."

"So, what do you think. Is this good or bad news?"

"Good I hope. After all, a hired killer would have done the deed by now, surely. Sleep comes to us all _eventually_..." John couldn't help but notice the weighted pause, and Mycroft was looking right at him, he could tell. He wanted to fidget but tensed instead. The lilt to that last comment...did he know about-? _No, he couldn't-_ "I can only assume he leaves to do just that." He continued with a theatrical air. "It could be a ruse ofcourse, but if killing was the aim, he's missing some _ripe_ opportunities."

"Sherlock said that it wasn't Moran's style anyway." Maybe just a scout then? Or the mole? Someone hired to keep tabs? But by who? He felt like Sherlock would be less stressed if he'd gone out of the way to hire someone- he wasn't the type to accept anything less than the best afterall. Plus what would he pay it with? John was still all over his finances, so he would have noticed. Unlikely then.

His expression hardened as Mycroft wittered on like a preaching headmaster, not paying any attention because he was deep in thought. Moran wasn't someone to cross easily if the faked suicides were anything to go by. And with Moriarty as a teacher he could have been pulling alot of strings behind the scenes. The thought of them together though... he didn't know how to feel about it. Because the situation spoke to him differently than it did to Sherlock.

As much as he hated to think about it, as much as he hated Sherlock comparing himself with Moriarty, he had noticed the parallels. He couldn't help it. There was a small but powerful certainty developing in his mind the more he thought about it... In another lifetime it could have been _John_ stood in the docks in Moran's place, stood with deathly patience. Was it that easy? Or that inevitable, that he and Moran were drawn to them? The consultant criminal and detective.

The thing was... Moriarty never came across to him as the possessive type. Selfish, yes, cunning, definitely, insane with power-_ bingo!_ But he couldn't imagine that man sitting in the gallery, where Sherlock had, slowly grinding his teeth in fury at the scene below. But perhaps that was just too innocent of him, too empathetic. It was like hearing about the serial killers that came out on the news _'oh he was such a good neighbour, we never suspected a thing!'_ It was stupid to try and humanise the inhuman- but what did that make Moran? The secret second-in-command they hadn't known about until Sherlock had reappeared...

He'd felt so positive earlier, but it was as if a cloud was passing over him now. A cloud- or a_ target_. John spoke softly then, watching the world go by. "He thinks about it, y'know. Every time he looks at me. He thinks about all the ways he could find me. All the ways Moran could do_ it_." Mycroft was unusually quiet, and John realised then that he'd only won the battle yesterday, not the war. The look on Sherlock's face still twisted his stomach. He blinked a few times, clearing his throat with a cough. "He spoke to you about it yesterday?"

"...Not in any real detail. I phoned him. Was quite surprised that he didn't put up much resistance in coming to see me. You had him quite _agitated_." John looked down at his hands. "He said this case was '_too close to the bone_.' That's the problem with crimes that haven't happened yet- there are so many variables to consider. Sherlock is a genius yes, but uncovering the truth after the event is infinitely easier to dissect. How can you ever deduce the future with accuracy?" _He didn't want to deduce it, he wanted to prevent it._ "He just wanted to hear all the options."

"Options like: '_send John away_.'"

"All angles have to be considered-"

"He should have come to me."

"He couldn't." Ah, the '_don't be so thick'_ voice, followed by stoney silence. That was more like it. "He blames himself, and quite rightly. If he'd been more careful or stayed away, your life wouldn't be in jeopardy like it is."

"That is _unfair_." John pointed at him, immediately feeling defensive. "You of all people have _no right_ to say that. There was no way of knowing that Moran was going to behave like this- there was absolutely no indication he was even linked to Moriarty and if anything, because Sherlock came back we are finally going to be able to put things _right_. Moriarty's schemes didn't just die with him, his influence reaches beyond that and we have to use _every_ available lead to make sure more innocent people don't fall prey to it still." He lowered his hand. "So_ do not_ try to use my situation as a way to lesson your own guilt over this whole fiasco, because I'm not having it." He took a deep breath, trying to steady his agitation. "Sherlock deserves better than that and you know it."_ He saved me. He saved my friends._

The silence stretched on for over a minute, and he just watched the city roll on past, a city indifferent to the bickering inside the car. Grey sky and grey buildings... And that feeling of an invisible web sticking through it all. Broken in places, but still strong.

He risked a glance in Mycroft's direction. He was staring pensively at his umbrella, the handle of which he had gripped firmly in one hand. "Contrary to your beliefs, I care a _great_ deal for my brother... I know my own mistakes. I just don't want to see him make more at your expense."

John had to give him credit. Mycroft actually sounded genuinely concerned, which surprised him enough to cool his temper a little. "Look... This isn't what I had planned either, but me and Sherlock are a team and we've decided to stick together." _What a choice of words._ "That just isn't going to change."

He drummed his fingers on his knees, uncomfortable with what he had to say next, but not afraid of saying it. "And I don't like all this subterfuge, but you need to do what you need to do to protect this country..." He had never approved of the use of torture to get information, but he understood the need for it. To fight monsters, you often had to become them to a certain extent. He hated it, but there was no doubt that this was the kind of world they were living in. You could _never_ negotiate with terrorists, and it was just that simple. "And then you need to put him somewhere where no one will find him. If he's given even _one_ small opportunity to escape, it's pretty much a guarantee that he'll come after me, and I don't think that would end very well."

Mycroft scoffed. "And here I was, beginning to think you didn't value your life at all-"

"Do you actually think I'm saying this because I'm worried about _myself_? Mycroft, I am not asking for your protection." He frowned at him in disbelief, uncomfortable that that was what it sounded like, because the truth was far from it. "I'm not blowing my own horn here, saying that I'm fantastic or anything... but Sherlock _needs_ me. You do understand what that means, right? If I'm not around... I think... the whole world will know about it."

"...He did function without you before."

"And yet there's more than just _functioning,_ isn't there?"

They looked at each other directly then, and at first Mycroft tried to remain impassive but he failed rapidly, finally conceding agreement with a curt nod and tightly pursed mouth. It should have been a relief to have that acknowledgment, but it wasn't. He didn't enjoy bringing Mycroft round to his reasoning, because it felt like it jarred the natural order of things. He was the one that got to delight over how short-sighted John usually was, but the situation was completely reversed. It looked like even people as high up as him were capable of deluding themselves significantly, and that was worrying. And a cause for pity. Guilt ran deep with all of them it seemed.

It wasn't Moran that scared him really, but more the thought of leaving Sherlock alone. As corny as it might seem, he only fully comprehended the depth of Sherlock's attachment now, after they had slept together. There had always been the niggling doubts... but outside of the quite frankly astonishing act itself, he realised now that every move Sherlock had made lately was not to get John _'back on side_' and controlled as some people might think. No, it was because he was completely, and possibly permanently,_ infatuated_ with John. And it knocked the breath out of him thinking about it. He didn't really understand how it had happened, even with Sherlock's own admissions. But he still remembered what it felt to lay there, in the dark, with Sherlock thumbing his arm in slow strokes... he couldn't forget it.

It went against all he thought he knew about him, and yet it answered so many questions that had been left hanging in the air between them over the years.

But Sherlock was a whirlwind of energy, a titan amongst his peers... and where John had internalised his pain in his grief, he did seriously suspect that the opposite could happen if the situation was reversed.

John loved him, but he was in no way blind to his flaws. Because for all that hidden softness, Sherlock was _very_ capable of being extremely cruel and clinical if he wanted to be. If something went wrong at this stage, before either of them had found their footing with each other, then it was likely the results would be even more catastrophic.

He went cold at the thought, but luckily didn't have to worry about carrying the conversation any further as the car pulled up outside the electronics store he needed. He didn't want to know how Mycroft knew to drop him there, it was just another creepy thing he didn't have time for. He popped open the door, and put one foot out, before turning back to him briefly. "So can we count on you?"

"I will do all in my power to make it as though Moran never even _existed._" His words were calm and measured, but the smile he wore was actually quite unnerving. _Chilling,_ even. It was the perfect cue to get the Hell out of there. But as he closed the door behind him, the window wound down and Mycroft moved to where he had been sitting so he could look out. John felt like he was being looked at with some stern consideration, but didn't balk under that critical gaze. "I do wonder sometimes what would have happened if you had taken the money when we first met... You are quite possibly the best _and_ worst thing to ever happen to my brother."

John actually laughed, digging his hands into his pockets. "I take that as a _massive_ compliment."

"So you should... Goodbye John. Take care."

"I'm sure I'll see you soon enough." He quickly added, watching how Mycroft's mouth jerked into a lop-sided grin.

"Yes, ofcourse."

And that was it. Conversation over, window up and off the car went, sliding away into the London traffic. All John's frazzled mind could think up was:_ I bet the congestion charges are bloody horrific for that thing. Maybe he was exempt?_ John gave himself a mental shake, now really wasn't the time to wonder what London rates were these days- the events of the day had already unnerved him so he wanted to get back home as soon as possible.

_Home._ The thought of getting back in time to see Sherlock gave him butterflies... a pleasantly shy feeling. But he would have to resign himself to the fact that until they had settled into this new arrangement, he was going to have to stomach these lovesick feelings as best he could, before they got him into trouble.

Stepping into the store, John did see the occasional raised eyebrow from other patrons who obviously recognised him, but luckily a member of staff managed to cut a few braver ones off at the pass and took him to a quieter part of the store to go over what kind of laptop he needed. Half of the spiel went over his head (okay more than half, he wasn't a tech whiz like Sherlock), but after going through model type, operating system, anti-virus, accessories and the overall cost, he finally came out of there with something that was hopefully not going to get smashed into a wall any time soon. He didn't even think about the time he'd taken in there until he was past the Paparazzi Gauntlet, and hauling his bag up the stairs to 221B, where a shadow passed over him from the landing.

"You're _late._"

John looked at his watch as Sherlock moved out of the way to let him through. "12:52. You're early."

"Mycroft?" He asked, following him in to the living room.

"The one and only. Plus a very informative saleswoman who has probably made a huge commission courtesy of MasterCard." He raised his shopping bag slightly to emphasise- as if you could miss the huge thing in the first place. He placed it on the coffee table, next to the remains of his old laptop and looked around. The living room looked like a bombsite- the chairs had been pushed back and some kind of systematic piling of papers and folders was strewn around the floor, a space in the middle where Sherlock had probably been sitting. "But it's sorted now. I told him that we're going to get through this together, like always."

"He didn't object?"

"I didn't really leave him room to." John thought he saw the briefest flash of a smile but couldn't be sure as Sherlock turned his head away back to the papers. "How did court go?"

"_Fine_."

He pouted, already slightly peeved, as the other man strode back to the space in the middle of the room, sitting down with what looked like a definite 'huff' motion. Sherlock was clearly pissed off about something, and it probably didn't help that he'd lost track of how late it was. He had said before 12, and at any other time in their lives it wouldn't have been a problem. Sherlock would have been blind to it- might not even have noticed he was gone at all - but John was part of his current case now, and it had probably taken a_ huge_ amount of will power not to spam his phone with calls demanding him to return.

He went to apologise but Sherlock cut him off without looking up, "any luck with the boy?"

John flopped down on the sofa, suddenly quite exhausted with all the trekking about London. "Now that you mention it, the visit to the hostel was _totally_ bizarre."

That peaked his interest atleast. "Bizarre how?"

"Will had told me that he'd gone for an interview there for some kind of admin-type job, and won it. In return they'd given him a room there. He was wearing a suit at the time so I didn't doubt him. But when I spoke to the manager today, she said she hadn't offered a position like that in _two years._ She didn't even remember seeing Will there. And that tallies with what someone else in the Ratway told me last weekend."

"Will probably isn't his name though."

"Yes, well I realise that's a possibility now, but the description I gave-"

"Counts for little when he is not infact a red head."

John stared at him dumbly. "_What?_"

Sherlock rearranged two piles of papers into alternate sections, completely oblivious to John's reaction. "It was dyed, or bleached, or both actually- I noticed it when we met in the tunnels, he'd done his eyebrows but he'd missed a bit just by his ear. I only caught it by chance in that level lighting-"

"You _are_ joking?" John seethed, temper rising. It must have been notable in his voice though as Sherlock glanced at him sharply, his face the picture of innocence.

"What?"

"You couldn't have told me _any_ of that before? '_Oh by the way John I don't think he is who he says he is, he's not even a real red head_.' I saw this kid every few days for _weeks_, built up a friendship with him and then you turn up, things go all weird between him and me, and you couldn't say _one thing_ about it?"

He frowned indignantly at John. "I did say something about it."

"When?!"

"This morning."

It took him a few seconds to think back to the morning and try and work out what he was referencing. "All you said was that I shouldn't be so trusting!"

"_Yes_. And I was right, wasn't I? The boy was a liar. And I thought you knew about the dyed hair, being such _close friends_-" John bristled as Sherlock did air quotations with his fingers.

"Why would I?"

"- I mean it should have been _obvious_ he was hiding himself for some reason - who would choose to go_ that_ colour? It's not exactly a popular choice for _boys_."

"Right. Yes. _Ofcourse_. How short-sighted of me." John replied icily, shaking his head with a tight smile.

"It's of little consequence now though, isn't it? He's disappeared. And what would you have said to him anyway? _'Sorry for brutally rejecting you, but you were right all along, I do love Sherlock- my bad?'_"

The smile fell, and John looked down at his feet, feeling the sting of that sarcastic comment. "Fair point... but you don't have to be a _dick_ about it." He whispered. "And it wasn't _brutal_."

"If it wasn't brutal, why do you feel so guilty about it then?"

"You know what, you're right, it is of little consequence now."

"John-"

"Just leave it," he said with a small laugh and a bewildered smile. "It just _doesn't_ matter. I've been wasting my time over nothing. He's gone. It's fine."

It wasn't fine.

He was worried.

He did feel guilty.

He was annoyed.

But he pushed it all down and redirected his attention to the boxes from the store, pulling them out of the big bag. Even in this day and age, there was an astonishing amount of packing material to get through before he had the laptop out.

John could see Sherlock peering up at him from the floor but he pretended not to notice, looking at the instruction manual. It was a good few minutes before Sherlock actually said anything. "I really _did_ think you knew about the hair."

"It's alright." John conceded, eyes roaming over the gibberish listed in front of him with increasing frustration. He didn't remember his other laptop being this complicated, but it had come ready-to-go. He peered at another box marked: Windows 7: Professional. "We're still finding our footing I suppose... my psychic powers shall surely return soon." He cracked open the box, getting out another instruction manual, agitation mounting as a few pieces of paper fluttered out of the case and caught themselves up in the static of the polystyrene packaging next to him. He couldn't believe how these few disks and codes cost nearly as much as the bloody machine. "Um, Sherlock - do you think you could take a break for a few minutes...?"

Sherlock rose gracefully to his feet, and took off his jacket, flinging it on to the far end of the sofa as he stepped up on to the coffee table to come and sit with him. John rolled his eyes as he heard some of the smaller bits of broken plastic crunch underfoot from his old laptop, but he still scooched over enough to make a space for Sherlock on the sofa with him.

"It's really quite straightforward-" Sherlock began, as John passed him the laptop and the discs, but stopped when he saw the expression on his face. "Straightforward in that I should _shut up_ and help you install all this, because it's _my fault_ you had to get a new one."

"Nice save." He replied, watching with interest as Sherlock set to work setting up his laptop. The distraction actually seemed to do them both some good though, as the daylight quickly came and went, with easy conversation and laughter echoing through the apartment every now and then, but mostly there was a comfortable silence. John didn't mind so much when he was teased about his lack of computer knowledge, and Sherlock seemed pretty content to play the role of the teacher. When the laptop was finally up and running, fully installed with all the mod cons, he gave John a very comprehensive guided tour that only went over his head by about 50%. But when Sherlock was finally confident enough in John to entrust him with the awesome power of internet access once again, he realised he had to get back to the files, and became quite annoyed that the time had passed so quickly.

Watching him get up and throw himself back into work was a trip down memory lane, but it really brought home what a balancing act it was going to be from now on. Was Sherlock thinking about it too? Was he as tuned in to the absence of him by his side as John now was? Before, he had liked to stretch out on the sofa occasionally, but now, without Sherlock sharing the space with him, the space was _dwarfing_. Even when the detective sat not five feet from him, there was this internal desire in John that wanted him back by his side. It was embarrassing, the neediness. So he buried himself in his email inbox that was linked to his blog, trying to ignore it _and_ his frowning companion on the floor.

Sherlock was still frowning in concentration a few hours later, so immersed in thought and half-cut-off mutterings that he didn't even notice John at first, as he finally got up and tip-toed past the piles of paper towards him. But he immediately straightened when John pushed a hand through his hair to get his attention, probably surprised. Thankfully he didn't protest at the touch or pull away... instead he actually pushed slightly into his hands as he tutted at a few paragraphs of text.

"What are you even looking for?"

"I don't_ know_." He admitted, growling in frustration, and John felt the sensation of it through his fingertips as he watched him fling the sheets into their original box. "There are too many gaps!"

John looked at the time, stifling a yawn, "You've been at it for three hours now-" He said, half lurching, half hopping over the piles between them to the kitchen, sticking the kettle on.

"I've barely started."

"Take a_ break_, Sherlock."

"I_ can't_."

"What about some tea?"

"No."

"Dinner?"

"_No_."

"Bed?"

"_N-_."

Sherlock's harsh expression of concentration broke into a small smile, finally looking up at him from across the room. He could instantly read the reluctance to say 'no' but cut him off before he could elaborate. "That last one was a joke. I'm under no illusions about how things will be between us." Sherlock gave him a questioning look but he just smiled softly. "The work comes _first_. I know that. I agreed to it. When we..." _Sealed the deal._ He gestured back behind him to the bedroom, awkwardly, unable to articulate that particular thought.

"And that's... enough for you?"

He shrugged, turning back to the sideboard to set up his tea. "I don't get to choose."

"If you could though. If you_ could_ choose?"

There were very few times, that he had taken note of atleast, where Sherlock had actually said something that was so telling of his true self. The part that worried. The bit that Sherlock must have hated about himself, because it brought him on a level playing field with everyone else.

_Insecurity._

"...Would I still choose you?" He asked, getting the milk out of the fridge, trying to remain casual when really there was nothing casual about what Sherlock was asking him. It was quite a heady feeling, to know that Sherlock was allowing him this power- the right to _hurt_ him if he wanted. It didn't matter that there was no way for him to think objectively about such a thing...it didn't matter at all. What mattered was that he had asked. That he had wondered himself.

John smiled as the kettle boiled and he made up his tea, using the last of the milk- again. "I am off to bed, because for_ some reason_ I hardly got a wink of sleep last night and I am _shattered_. I'd ask you not to stay up late, but I know it'd fall on deaf ears." He grabbed up his mug and half a packet of biscuits, knowing full well that Sherlock was watching him as he turned to the back of the kitchen instead of to the side- heading to Sherlock's bed, not his own. Because actions really did speak louder to him than words.

Sherlock said nothing, but ofcourse he was probably going to stay up all night, going over the tapes from court again perhaps, trying to find a discernible order to the stack of files Lestrade had given him, not that the amount that he'd been allowed to see seemed to do either of them much good. Lestrade was already putting himself at alot of risk for sharing what he had brought around, but he didn't know what Sherlock needed without him getting into the main record banks and looking around himself, and it was far too risky to try and access the e-records remotely. Every query was cut off, every request was refused. Lestrade's hands were tied. And on top of that, Sherlock was consistently torn with wanting to go and investigate using his own methods, and not wanting to risk either being away from John for long, or by taking him along to the key 'danger areas' - namely the max security jail and the Yard. If he was caught, it could seriously harm the court outcome. Sure, Moran wasn't protesting now, but maybe he was waiting for Sherlock to dig his own grave. John grimaced at the poor imagery.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, munching a chocolate digestive as his thoughts and worries bumped around inside his head. Sherlock had once described him as not having a 'train of thought' so much as a 'dingey of thought' - occasionally dipping his oar in to see what came up. It had been one Hell of a spiteful comment at the time, but he couldn't help but think it was closer to the truth than he liked.

"We don't really know anything about Moran y'know." He called out, aware that something just wasn't sitting right with him, but unable to determine what it was exactly. "Killing the hitmen could have had more to do with them personally. _He_ was the one to let himself get arrested. What if he really _does_ just need refuge, or what if he's just out to make a name for himself somehow? Claiming 'the glory' of it all, maybe. The code, the way he is at court- it could all just be an act, couldn't it? The game could be just seeing how far he can-" Sherlock pushed the half closed door open suddenly, but he wasn't startled. "-wind you up." He finished, looking up at him as he took another bite.

"I already considered all that."

"And your-" He covered his mouth with one hand, accidentally spraying a few crumbs. "-conclusions?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the display, folding his arms with a deeply put-out look. "My conclusions are: biscuits have no place in the bedroom."

John scoffed, laughing. "Make up your mind, do you want me to eat or not?"

"_Ofcourse I want you to eat, John!_" He snapped, and this time John was startled, eyes flashing wide for a second as he swallowed the last of it.

"I was just joking around... sorry, that was stupid of me."

Sherlock leant back against the open door, running both hands through his curls with an exasperated sigh. "No, don't be sorry, the fault is mine." He said apologetically, one hand gesturing to the living room. "It's just I'm being_ blindsided_ at every turn! The Chief Superintendent haunted my every move at court today. It's no wonder the crime rate is soaring with that _overbearing_ _oaf_ directing people!"

"What happened? I thought you said it all went fine today."

"Fine _enough_. But I don't need 'fine,' John. Neither of us do." Sherlock tensed, crossing his arms as he stared back out into the hallway. "He's out there right now, waiting to put his plan into effect, and yet I'm forced to _sit here_, unable to question him, and unable to step _two feet_ outside without the paparazzi or the police following me."

"You knew this wasn't going to be easy. You haven't even been back a month yet, it was going to be crazy even without the court case." He stood up, crossing the small space between them, and pulled his crossed arms down out of their tense grip. But he was clearly very wound up by it all, wanting to pull away even though John wouldn't let him. "_Sherlock._ You've analysed _every_ scrap of available evidence. You've watched_ every_ video and court session he has been in. You've even given Lestrade a list of likely escape plans and areas of risk. It's. Out. Of. Your. Control. You've done all there is to do!"

"I will not be bested by a Moriarty _wannabe_!"

John grabbed him by the scruff of his perfectly tailored shirt and pulled him down to his mouth, nearly bumping noses but connecting wonderfully at the last second. One token noise of protest from Sherlock was all the resistance he faced as they kissed, until atlast John felt those arms winding around him tightly, forcing them closer together. It was a blessed relief to know that finally sleeping together had not diminished anything at all, not if the heat of that embrace was anything to go by.

He broke the kiss first, before things got too out of hand because he really was _so tired_. And distracting Sherlock again probably wasn't a good idea anyway. "Better?" He whispered, looking up into those heated, pale eyes. Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath, hands sliding to John's waist, seemingly able to compose himself a little easier after the interruption. "You_ can't_ keep doing this to yourself." John insisted. "Even if you could get direct access to Moran or the staff closest to him, what could you do? Nothing that wouldn't put you in jail. And we both know you're better than that. So that leaves focusing on the mole-"

"John, I have been!" He said, giving him an emphatic squeeze. "The files Lestrade gave me are months old and they don't even cover half the staff."

"Won't he let you do a few interviews on the sly?"

"Not whilst_ The Oaf_ is lurking around, and _he_ doesn't go on holiday until after the trial, which is too late to wait for."

"Alright-"

"And I can't pay anyone a home visit because the data set is too incomplete to give me a short list, and without a short list I can't run financial and background checks! And if I start targeting the ones I do have, there's a high chance of being caught before we get anywhere near the culprit."

"Couldn't Mycroft do it?"

"For a handful _yes_. But again, the big group could attract unwanted attention. We don't want to risk his position in scooping up Moran at the end of the trial, and we most definitely don't want to let the mole know we're on to them." He pushed John backwards, until the back of his legs hit the bed, hands sliding up to his shoulders as Sherlock pushed him into sitting back down. "Plus I don't fancy giving anyone the advantage of knowing we're basically stabbing in the dark."

"So where does that leave us?"

"It leaves _you_ getting a proper early night this time, and it leaves me waiting." He narrowed his eyes, sitting down on the bed next to him, perching on the edge as if poised for action at any moment. "And I hate waiting."

John sighed, taking a much needed swig of tea. He felt like he could have done with about three more cups. "Well, I wish _we_ could go on holiday after the trial."

Sherlock gave him a dismissive wave. "We just got back from one."

"Yes, but that doesn't really count...you know sandy beaches, clear blue water, cocktails."

"We_ literally_ just did that. Loch Laggan had a beach, there was water, you had a _beer_-"

He began laughing at the comparison but Sherlock didn't really seem to get what was so funny. "Scotland is hardly the tropics though is it? I meant somewhere with a bit more_ heat_. Where is the Superintendent going?"

"Fiji." Sherlock steepled his hands against his mouth, no doubt half of his attention already diverting to finding a new action plan.

"Fiji?!_ Christ_. How much are they paying him? And Lestrade could barely afford Spain last year..."

"Well Lestrade has the divorce to deal with still..." And then suddenly his back straightened, eyes widening, mouth popping open in realisation. "Oh."

"Oh?"

He just managed to get his mug safely back on the nightstand when Sherlock gripped his arm with one hand, delighted. "Oh! John!"

"Okay, enough with the _porno_ noises-" He hissed, but Sherlock just snorted.

"What? Yes- well- that's more _your_ area of expertise-"

"_Piss off_!" He exclaimed, laughing nervously as Sherlock grinned and got up, sweeping out of the room again. "Where are you going now?"

"The Oaf, John. The Chief Superintendent! The man with _all the power_ at Scotland Yard, the one I've been trying to avoid like the plague-"

He dashed to his feet, standing in the doorway as Sherlock bustled about in the kitchen. "You can't seriously be suggesting that _he's_ the mole?!"

"No, no, ofcourse not! That's far too cliche. But you don't get to the top of that particular ladder without some trusted supporters baking you up. And some hidden enemies waiting to bring you _down_." He laughed in that maniacal way he was often prone to, and John couldn't help but be reassured by it. When he started doing that, he was usually on to something. "I've been looking at the wrong team! I should be going higher. Oh, this is _perfect_. It's definitely not a money-trail we're looking for, it's a power trail!"

"I don't understand, didn't we already know Moran hasn't got any money?" John followed him through the kitchen and into the living room, Sherlock apparently not caring about the files as he slid through them, putting on his jacket and grabbing his coat.

"Not yet he doesn't! I'll explain later, I have to get back to the Yard. Lestrade should still be there-"

"Do you want me to-?"

"No, stay here, get some rest. I won't be long!"

He was down the stairs and out of the flat before the final kicked-up page came to rest in the doorway, leaving John to stand there, stuck at 221B _again_. He was tired,_ yes_, but he would have gone happily if he'd asked. "Right. Okay. _Rest_." He grabbed up the records box with one hand, shaking his head as he began picking up all the sheets, putting them away with a little more vigor than was necessary, accidentally tearing a few, all the time muttering under his breath as he went.

"...Just after I finish tidying up the _damning_ stolen police records that could land both our arses in jail, you _pillock._.."

But when he finally got back to bed over half an hour later, he couldn't sleep. He was just too wired by Sherlock bouncing his way out of their apartment. He would have gone down to see Mrs Hudson if it wasn't so late, and had to make do with channel hopping on TV instead.

Which was why he practically tripped over himself, getting up out of his armchair to snatch up his phone when he heard a text come through.

**Meet me at**

**42 Fletching Row**  
**W16 3RY**

**-SH**

"Finally!"


End file.
